


To the Victor all the Spoils

by ADSpinner



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:39:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 85,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADSpinner/pseuds/ADSpinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if she could not peek through the slits of his mask, that time she could feel it, a scorching gaze pinned on her little frame. It unnerved her, for the wrong reasons. She suddenly understood how foolish she had been for indulging so long in their little game, but from the wrong conclusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This story is explicit and will contain initial non-consent, Stockholm Syndrome, sexuality, many situations that will be in the grey-scales of morality, and a convoluted plot that is an elaborate excuse to write explicit sexy scenes, thus refrain from reading if you know it may offend you or make you too uneasy!
> 
> A special thanks goes to my beta Merkin, for her kind assistance and grammar corrections.

**1.**

**(Nir)**

She had always believed Miraak's plan in the end was to kill her, to devour her own dragon soul.

That was why she did everything in her power that month in Solstheim to locate him, even daring to make a pact with a conniving Daedric Lord in order to reach the Summit of Apocrypha.

The Last Dragonborn was ready to fight the First to the death.

She had always thought that otherwise she would never have gotten rid of him.

She should have known better.

With hindsight, there were little dissonant details in his actions that should have risen some suspicion, but from the very beginning she got side-tracked by his constant taunts. He had goaded her on until the very end.

_"Fate decreed that you had to die so that I could win my freedom."_

He had led her to believe so, doing little to correct her assumptions.

While their swords clashed in an impasse of brute strength, Miraak's voice reverberated from his mask in an unnaturally soft manner, almost like he was revealing to her some sort of confession, a strident contrast to the raw force he exerted in combat.

She hadn't perceived it then, the truth he was concealing, yet offering her with that simple, seemingly plain statement.

She had been too naïve then, or not twisted enough to understand his behaviour.

There had been a fleeting moment when she experienced the giddy taste of near victory, lending her enough energy for a final push, and make him fall back with a flurry of blades.

_"This cannot be. I am master of my own fate!"_

In his hiss there was a strange touch of resentment. She mistook it at first for concealed panic—then he turned the tables.

_"Kruziikrel, ziil los dii du!"_

Her body already ached with fatigue when she watched, horrified, how the dragon evaporated in a luminous mist and replenished his adversary with new strength.

_"Ah, now we can finish this."_

In his voice there was an odd fluctuation of lurking eagerness and something not so identifiable.

It was only a matter of time before he got her cornered. She was too exhausted to keep up with him like before.

She shut her eyes and waited for the final strike, the mortal stab that would steal away her life.

And she realized with bitterness that she would experience it too, now, the answer to the question he had once so casually laid to her.

_"Do you ever wonder if it hurts, having your soul ripped out like that?"_

It happened during their second encounter. She should have noticed how his body flinched after he turned toward her, but she was too angry to catch such detail at that time, too preoccupied with her stolen dragon soul to care about anything else.

The winter wind blew violently against the barren and snowy mountain peaks, but she marched resolute, step after step, toward his ethereal projection.

With the hood down, her long red hair floated around in disarray, matching the wild emotions that distorted her angry visage. She had lost her Hevnoraak mask during the recent fight, when the dragon had shouted a Fus-Ro-Dah so powerful it had almost thrown her down the nearest precipice.

As she could not hurt his intangible form, she resorted to verbally venting her righteous fury, just a few feet away from his masked face.

She was going to yell a chain of such vivid profanities that even a chief bandit would have blushed at hearing them, when he surprised her, uttering with a strange softness that unexpected question before vanishing away.

She lost the count of how many times she had cursed the moment she lost that mask. If she had known what that insignificant event would have unleashed, she would have replaced it with another mask, and not donned a pretty circlet like she did during that fateful final battle.

It did not matter in the end, however. She discovered much later that the damage done that day would not have been mended so easily.

_"Send him back where he came from. He can await my arrival with the rest of Tamriel."_

In retrospect she found it funny, that at their first accidental meeting he had surmised the Last Dragonborn to be a man.

Normally she would have given the matter but a fleeting thought, she was so used to Nordic sexism by then, but it insidiously stung her pride, poisoning her common sense.

Perhaps that was why she kept antagonizing him at every chance, spurring him on, driven by a foolish desire to show him her real strength.

And he urged her on in his own twisted way.

She should have caught those subtle changes after their second conversation, but she did not.

_"So you have slain Alduin... I could have slain him myself... You have no idea of the true power a Dragonborn can wield..."_

She was too deafened by the growing echo of his initial dismissive derision.

From then a pattern was set. Every time she risked her life to slay a dragon, he would appear behind her back and steal her hard-earned prize.

Dozens of dragon souls, by her reckoning. Only at one point had she stopped to count.

Sometimes his projection would take shape just few inches behind her neck, to tease her with the brief illusion that finally—finally!—the dragon soul was flowing into her. Or so she thought.

_"This dragon's soul belongs to me."_ He murmured that into her ear during one of their last meetings, his voice a soft, deep rumble, before she made the stupid decision to return to Solstheim.

Lydia had tried to warn her, that her one-sided competition—so the worried Housecarl had labelled it—was getting out of control.

_"It takes a strong will to command a Dragon's soul. Perhaps you aren't as powerful as you think."_

He started to openly tease her after their fifth encounter, when she tried to punch his incorporeal chest out of frustration, making a total fool of herself.

He did it on purpose, just to get her all riled up for his own dark amusement. Even though she knew that, the urge to rage at him was strong, especially when he just stood there and chuckled at her temper tantrums.

Lydia wasn't there that time, so she didn't take note of the obnoxious and patronizing cadence he used just to provoke her into accepting his unvoiced challenge.

She should have listened for once to her wise friend, and not have taken his bait.

All other tasks slowly fell second place to the maddening desire to snatch away the next dragon soul before he could.

At first she would merely delay her current mission if a dragon was unfortunate enough to be spotted flying in the skies. Then it devolved into active hunting, with the help of Delphine's maps.

_"Thank you for your help. We will meet again soon."_

Their brief interactions soon dwindled.

That time she almost grasped the picture of the situation she was in, when she mused, irritated, that his teasing threat almost sounded like he was looking forward to see her again. He was getting cocky, too, invading more and more of her personal space with his translucent, incorporeal form.

Perhaps she would have not been so clueless if his form had been tangible.

She brushed it off as the typical power game, aimed to display with arrogant confidence what a petty menace he considered her to be.

She had been a foolhardy, inexperienced young woman, too blinded by her insatiable need to prove herself and be recognized.

_"I grow ever stronger, Dragonborn. One step closer to my return."_

During their last verbal exchange, he stood only few inches from her chest and spoke to her with a low and soft guttural tone.

She deduced long ago, from his deep vocal timbre, his burly physique and tall height, that he was a Nord. She always believed herself to be tall enough for a Breton, but she barely reached his shoulders.

Even if she could not peek through the slits of his mask, that time she could feel it, a scorching gaze pinned on her little frame. It unnerved her, for the wrong reasons. She suddenly understood how foolish she had been for indulging their little game, but came to the wrong conclusion.

She told Lydia they would travel to Windhelm that same night.

She should have fled away to Cyrodiil.

_"And here you are, just as I asked. How very kind of you._

_I presume you've already seen some of what I've accomplished._

_There is so, so much more to be done. I'm glad you're here."_

An alarm bell should have chimed in her head, when he worded his greeting in that oddly gentle way. Her resentment and her certainties had grown tenfold, though, after the recent attack of that dragon, Krosulhah. The beast had claimed that the First had commanded her death. So she completely overlooked the fact that he welcomed her with unusual warmth, and instead stirred him up with her usual cheek.

_"Then let us see who truly has the soul of the Dov."_

She shouldn't have prodded the slumbering dragon.

Their first physical confrontation started with a paced exchange of lethal spells. She quickly discovered that he was well-versed in the destruction branch of magic and so chose to change tactics. They shifted to close combat when she unsheathed her familiar Daedric blades.

_"I know things the Greybeards will never teach you."_

He took advantage of their proximity, when their blades and his staff were locked in a power struggle, to flaunt his greater knowledge.

She was too concentrated in keeping her stance to catch the dark innuendo his smooth, deep intonation imprinted on the phrase.

To her ears it just sounded like his umpteenth attempt at mockery.

_"Felling Alduin was a mighty deed."_

She should have been paying more attention to what he kept saying.

_"The Greybeards taught you well."_

To the way he continued to praise her.

_"You are strong. Stronger than I believed possible."_

To the odd undertone that accompanied each assessment he shared with her.

She had been a fool, to just internally gloat over his acknowledgement of her strength, instead of hearing the husky tone he used.

His admissions and the defensive position he maintained during the fight spurred her to double her efforts, with little care of preserving her depleting endurance.

And then after she cornered him into shouting those four cursed words, he stopped to sweet-talk her. He went on full offensive.

_"You fight valiantly against fate, but I am stronger here."_

His voice thundered, amplified by his metallic mask, almost deranged as he charged.

He did not give her a chance to slip out of defence once. She was weary, her muscles too tired to ward off his brutal retaliation. She soon found herself knocked against a column, the blade of his poisoned sword grazing the pale skin of her neck. There was no need for him to state the obvious. She let her blades drop to the floor and closed her eyes in bitter defeat.

Then she yelled in surprise, when instead of receiving the final blow, she felt his hands roughly grab her arms and throw her at his feet. She reopened her eyes, wide like those of a caught deer, only to stare in utter disbelief at how his massive frame straddled her hips as he unbuckled his belt.

She didn't think, just shouted with all the remaining strength in her lungs.

Her unexpected Fus-Ro-Dah hurled him far enough to give her time to crawl some feet away, but a paralysing spell hit her bent form, the same one he used that time she unwittingly disturbed his wretched existence in Apocrypha and scrambled his plans to ruin.

_"Did you think to escape me?"_

His growl was feral. She could not move but to furiously blink the tears away.

He gripped his sword and tore with precise cuts the leather clasps of her armour and her modest undergarments, leaving her chest and legs completely exposed to his sight.

She blushed in shame as he perused her naked body. She could not see the expression on his face, but she caught the little twitches of arousal he was not able to repress.

He pulled off his gloves and carelessly threw them nearby, and his bare hands visibly quivered when they feverishly touched her pale, large breasts, as he gazed at them behind the black slits of his inexpressive mask.

He didn't take his own clothes off, just freed the thick hardness restrained beneath his trousers.

She was thunderstruck and disoriented at seeing his swollen erection.

Men did not react to her that way—they fled from her in fear. For the first time since her arrival in Skyrim, she was scared out of her wits, and she couldn't stop crying like a baby.

He did not give her a chance to digest the notion, or give her any warning, instead he spread her legs around his waist and entered her.

It burnt—how it burnt. Worse than all the planes of Oblivion put together.

She would have screamed at the top of her lungs if she weren't paralysed.

He stilled after he bottomed out, all his muscles tense. She thought the Divines still had some mercy for her.

He remained motionless for a long while, his masked face buried in the crook of her neck, his hands tightening around her soft thighs. She could hear his heavy, fast breathing, and a guttural moan escaped from his throat when he slowly started to rock his hips against hers, once, twice, then a gradually faster pace that got rougher, more frantic after each push.

She knew he was far gone when he groaned without restraint and buried himself in her with wild abandon, crushing her petite frame under his heavy bulk.

_"Geh...undaargaar..."_

It was surreal to hear that voice, his voice, moan with pleasure next to her ear.

He shivered uncontrollably and then collapsed over her. A strange, alien warmness spread through her lower, now sore abdomen.

She had no idea how long she stared blankly over his shoulder. Those two dragons were still flying in the greyish sky, while he lay on her, spent, still inside her, and she felt sick.

 


	2. Devour

**2.**

**(Du)**

She awoke on an unfamiliar bed.

Rays of intense light forced her to momentarily shut her eyes and swiftly turn.

It took her some time to focus on the outlines of the objects concealed in the shadows.

Untouched, almost translucent white pages floated sluggishly over her head, pierced by beams of light that illuminated dense masses of dust particles twirling in the static air.

Those rays came from a ceiling so high and dark that it seemed unreachable, like an inscrutable abyss.

She tentatively rested a bare foot on the floor, and felt a warm rough texture touch her toes.

The pavement was a carpet of pristine pages and there were piles of books scattered everywhere. Even the walls, from what she could see, were long, unending rows of bookshelves. And then she noticed the still figure that sat in the darkest corner.

She instinctively huddled up to cover her naked form.

A brief chuckle echoed in the silence.

" _Modesty is unnecessary now."_

She blanched. That voice. Miraak.

It was him, without that cursed mask.

She charged.

" _IIZ SLEN NUS!"_

" _FEIM ZII GRON"_

Her shout, to her dismay, passed through his now ethereal body, and instead hit the stone chair, encasing it in a block of deadly ice.

He lazily stood up and walked toward her while she glared at him with full, unconcealed hate, waiting for the effects of his shout to disappear, her muscles ready to strike.

He stopped her punch as fast as she threw it, grabbing her wrists with astonishing precision, and forced her to lie down on the bed. She trashed like a savage, caged beast, but it was useless. He was on top of her again, pinning her wrists over her head.

" _A true dovah till the end."_

Twisted appreciation dripped from his growl and a smirk curved his dry lips.

For the first time she could watch the terrifying yearning he had concealed behind his mask, the now undisguised lust that clouded his unnatural, pitch black eyes, the only visible sign of Mora's Daedric corruption.

" _I won. Accept it."_

It was the same tone, that patronizing inflection he had used in all their previous brief conversations, but now she detected the undercurrent of craving.

" _I know you are angry. It is understandable. I did not foresee that you were... untouched."_

She tried hard not to blink or to ponder upon the implications of that statement.

She refused to cry again, not in front of him.

He pressed a hand in her mouth, before she could Shout at him once more.

" _I can paralyse you like before, or use the Bend Will Shout on you. Or I can be gentle and show you. Your choice."_

That was no choice. She turned her face away. She could not look at him without bursting into tears.

She just hoped it would be over soon.

He took her silence and her lack of resistance as some kind of tacit consent, so he proceeded to calmly undress himself. She heard when his robes and boots fell to the ground with a soft thud, but she kept still and did not glimpse at him once. She refused to look at his arousal again.

His frame returned to stand above her. She felt the mattress sink as he leaned over to kiss her exposed neck.

She cringed at the sudden contact of their naked bodies, but shut her eyes and remained motionless. She could avoid seeing anything, but she wasn't able to ignore how his large hands slowly caressed the curves of her sides, or the way one cupped her breast with unexpected softness while his wet, heated kisses slowly descended toward her chest, leaving a trail of goose bumps on her sensitized skin.

She almost jerked away when his lips touched her other breast, and a burst of heat rushed into her cheeks for the shame when his tongue licked her nipple.

She bit her lower lip in chagrin and managed to keep still, but could not stop a shriek and clamp her legs shut when his fingers slithered between them. He forced them to spread with one of his knees as he deepened his touch, never shifting his attention away from her breasts.

She felt a mixture of undiluted panic and scorching fever she had never experienced before. It flowed from her thundering, deafening heartbeat, pervading her mind, threatening to choke her. Her breathing quickened, and she felt the tingle between her legs intensify as her folds dampened.

His rhythmical strokes slid with more ease.

She stifled a whimper, pressing a fist in her mouth and bit her knuckles hard, surely leaving a mark. She refused to give him the satisfaction of eliciting any verbal reaction out of her.

That simple little act was enough incentive, though, and he had already noticed her increasing wetness. He emitted a dark, pleased chuckle and left her chest to nibble her earlobe.

With a firm grasp, he moved away her hand from her shut lips.

He devoured her neck with hungry kisses as his fingers continued to thrust deeper and deeper while his thumb teased the little bud hidden in her mound.

She could not suppress the little moan that escaped, not while he kept pulling her hand away from her mouth. She internally cursed at herself. That itch of arousal never grew so unbearable when she satisfied herself.

Her brief moment of yielding did not seem enough to appease him, though from his smug expression she could see that he was enjoying her helpless state.

He rested a large hand on her tiny flushed cheek and forced her to look at him, straight into his bottomless, pitch black eyes.

" _This is only the beginning, dovahdin."_

The way he almost purred that warning should have frightened her, not merely intensified her blushing.

An unnatural heat flared up her belly as she watched with worry how he swooped down, never severing eye contact, with a predatory smirk full of wickedness.

" _No, no, no, NO!"_

Her sheepish screech resounded unexpectedly high in the dark chamber, but it did not sway him from his purpose. She stared in horrified fascination as he spread her thighs and buried his head between them.

Her hips joggled at his first intrusive lick and she hid her blushing face under her sweaty palms.

She shook her head in denial, but could not stop her back from arching in pleasure.

She had read, out of natural curiosity, promiscuous stories that described it, and had even fantasized a bit in her lonely moments of intimacy, but she would have never imagined that it could feel so perversely good. He was relentless and she just slowly surrendered to the feel, relaxing her arms, closing her eyes, and parting her swollen, reddened lips, gasping for air.

She stared beyond the rays of light, at the black abyss, through her half-parted eyelids, and heard how feminine moans echoed loudly and wantonly through the room.

She barely cared that it was her voice.

Every time she felt like she would shatter into a bright, blinding burst, his tongue would flick away from that aching spot as her body trembled. It was making her crazy.

" _Yes, you hunger for me now, like you should."_

Her mind was too blurred and her body too feverish and compliant, to put up any kind of resistance.

He positioned himself, forcing her knees to bend over his back, and her folds were so soaked that his thick hardness dove into her with just one slow, deep push.

He hissed, almost like he was in pain, as her soft, wet warmness clutched him tightly, but he continued to thrust harder into her.

She gasped, gaze clouded, lost in bliss, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, moving her hips to meet his own. It felt too good, like soaring toward an unreachable verge that she craved to touch.

" _Geh, du dii smoliin!"_

He roared in that dragon language she still did not understand.

For a moment she could see the _dovah_ , ramming wildly against his subdued prey, and she came, an explosion of blinding white, her narrow walls clamping around him, dragging him over the edge with her. He emitted a low deep growl as his hips sank deeper with a final harsh thrust. Then his back shuddered and he collapsed on her, his forehead sweating, his breath uneven.

He had devoured her.

She really should have listened to Lydia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon language:
> 
> Iiz Slen Nus = Ice Flesh Statue
> 
> Feim Zii Gron = Fade Spirit Bind
> 
> dovahdin = dragon maiden
> 
> Geh du dii smoliin = yes, devour my passion


	3. Seek

**3.**

**(Yah)**

She punched the empty bed over and over.

She had been seduced.

She seethed in shame at her weakness.

How she hated him.

Damn him to Oblivion, using her own innocence against her!

Her fingers clawed the mattress as she gritted her teeth in impotent rage.

" _They may suit you well."_

He may have feasted on her body, but he could not force her to speak to him!

She did not dignify him with a response or glance at the cloth and slippers he placed on the bed, near her naked figure. She turned her back to him and waited for some kind of retaliation, ready to strike back.

He just kept looking at her silently, his reactions hidden again behind his golden mask, and then walked away.

She immediately recognized the garment when she did look.

It was a dragon priest robe, like the one she had seen Morokei wear before chopping off his disgusting undead head. This one, though, was lighter and sleeveless, pristine white, and had no armour pieces. She wondered if it was his, and for an instant entertained the idea of putting it on and tearing it to shreds just in spite, but, sadly, there was nothing else to wear.

She discovered too soon as she roamed around how dull Apocrypha could be.

There was no day or night, nor any other simple way to measure the passing of time.

Its inhabitants had no basic needs like sleep or feed, so there was nothing to eat or drink.

With all that time in her hands she could have at least trained to enter the Bard College, but she found no instruments to play, or heard anything remotely similar to music. The only thing audible was the soft rustle of pages and the steady bubbling in the black toxic sea. The air carried no smell but the floating dust of old tomes.

The feasible activities were limited to reading or studying—neither was a pastime she was particularly fond of. She had always been inclined toward the Way of the Warrior, not of the scholar, as she realized in the Winterhold College.

At first she tried to distract herself with a self-imposed mission, and kept wandering around in the hope of at least avoiding Miraak, and at best finding a Black Book that could bring her back to Skyrim.

She quickly understood why Miraak did not lock her up. There was nowhere to go. While she sketched in a paper roll, she explored, marking each path. Though most of Apocrypha appeared like an unending labyrinth of bookcases, all the passages connected together to form a map of concentric loops.

She also found the platform where Miraak's dragons rested and tried in vain to talk with both of them. To her disappointment they were unresponsive to anything but orders, being under the influence of the Bend Will Shout. She knew that Shout too—just not how to release someone from its effects. She rode Sahrotaar to see if there was a way of escape beyond the labyrinthine walls, but discovered with growing frustration that the whole plane was a constellation of little isles surrounded by an endless surface of black oily ink. Each was connected to the other by Black Book chapters.

She came across so many Eldritch Abominations. Unfortunately none seemed able or willing to talk to her. At one point she even tried to engage a lurker in conversation.

The monotony of Apocrypha and the growing hopelessness of her situation were slowly eroding her nerves, and Miraak always seemed to know when the right time to swoop in on her was.

" _Ah, I see. Still employing the silent treatment. How mature."_

" _..."_

" _..."_

" _How dare you, after what you've done! Stealing my souls and my-my...!"_

" _Yes? Go on."_

" _You fucking bastard! Disgusting pillager! Shameless snatcher!"_

" _Mm, how typical. Using your feminine wiles to attain from contrition what you clearly lost in battle."_

" _What in oblivion are you insinuating? Like I would ever stoop to that!"_

" _Are you sure? I would not mind, at all."_

" _Don't come closer. S-stop it!"_

" _What? This? Or perhaps you intended this?"_

All those brief exchanges he managed to hook her into were enough to put him in that mood.

She learned fast enough what would swiftly follow after he removed his mask. There was little she could do when he was set on getting his way and soon she realized, much to her chagrin, that her attempts at resistance were slowly becoming more and more half-hearted, because even if she would have rather killed herself than acknowledge it, the pleasure she derived from the sex was becoming an easy way to temporarily escape from her desperation.

" _Little dov, I'm quite aware of what you think to achieve."_

" _Oh? What do you mean?"_

" _Just ask me what you wish to know."_

She'd found out that after he was sated he was more prone to share some of the knowledge that he normally would not have disclosed. And why not take advantage of that?

Subtlety had never been her strong point, and he did not seem upset in the least.

" _Why do you keep their wills suppressed?"_

That was something she had longed to understand for a long while—well, among other things she was sure he would refuse to explain. Relonikiv and Sahrotaar were the only two intelligent beings besides them in all Apocrypha, and she had looked forward to talking with them, like she did with Paarthurnax or Odahviing.

" _Believe me, I'm bestowing on them an act of mercy."_

She could detect a note of melancholy as he murmured sombre next to her.

" _The imprisonment in Apocrypha has crippled their minds. Even if I release them there would be nothing left of their previous selves."_

She remembered when Paarthurnax told her the story of Numinex, and how dragons that could not fly free in Kynareth's skies sooner or later fell into madness and self-harm.

She did not voice her thoughts about how he should have just devoured their souls and put an end to their misery, if he really felt pity for them. However, she knew deep inside why he couldn't.

Killing them would have forced him to digest the fact that he was really alone.

" _And if he suddenly pops around and catches you? He still considers you his Champion."_

" _Mph, that's highly improbable. His idea of control is leaving one to roam around his books."_

With no forewarning, he suddenly stopped his predictable ambushes.

At first she did not ponder too much on the reason, because after his last 'visit' he revealed to her, not without some residual grudge, that he was researching a new way to repair the stone pillars she so inconveniently destroyed.

How ironic. If she knew she would have ended up trapped by Miraak, she would not have helped the Skaal at all.

Thinking about that always made her homesick.

She briefly wondered how much time had already passed in Skyrim.

A few months or a year? Perhaps it was summer. What she would do to taste a sweet, juicy, crunchy apple. Time seemed to last forever in Apocrypha.

She had tried to kill herself once, when for the first time her hope to flee started to waver. The thought just came to her unbidden as she walked near a high cliff.

It occurred to her it would be the most painless and fastest way, and she let herself fall into the bottomless black sea.

For a moment she gleefully believed she was drowning to her death, only to awake again in her bed.

" _Don't you think I've already tried that? There's no escape from this place."_

There was a cold edge to Miraak's voice that made her feel guilty for a fleeting instant.

He informed her then, with unsettling detachment, that any kind of harm would just leave her unconscious for a while, and if she persisted with such endeavours, to choose a better place to faint, because next time he would not rescue her from remaining stuck forever in that sea.

She started to feel uneasy about his disappearance.

She reasoned it was just her not used to being completely alone for so long. She had never been so in her whole life—there was always someone accompanying her in her journeys, like Lydia, Odahviing, Frea, or even those Khajiit travellers that got her arrested near Skyrim's border. To think that she almost died because some idiots were trying to smuggle skooma.

She smiled with fondness at the memory.

For a moment she thought that she could help Miraak in his search. After all, escaping that hell was in her interests too, but then she discarded the idea. He would construe it as some show of compliance and that was just unacceptable.

To calm herself, she started reading some titles she thought would be interesting or useful, like _The Doors of Oblivion_ , in order to find some clue to escaping from there, but soon got tired of it. So she lay down in her bed and tried to sleep off her nervousness, with little success, and soon resorted to lazily pleasuring herself, losing her mind within brief moments of mild solace.

She then resumed her strolls, peeking into some other tomes.

In her aggravation, she ended up carrying around a pile of books only to launch them into the black sea. She watched with faint amusement how the water's surface just refused to let them sink down.

Until a chilling thought shook her.

What if Hermaeus Mora had indeed caught Miraak plotting again and decided to dispose of him?

Sudden, unbound dread grew at the blink of an eye, fed by the threat of remaining forever alone, stranded in that nightmare.

After some nervous pacing, she stood in front of the Black Book that connected to the small location he considered his personal study.

It was just to check that everything was all right, that the bastard was behaving like every self-absorbed scholar did. Then she would excuse herself and swear by all the Divines she just got lost.

And so she opened it.


	4. Fear

**4.**

**(Faas)**

It was quite dark for a study room.

 

Her worries grew rather than abating when she saw the messy state of his desk.

All the tomes, tools, notes, and Solstheim maps were scattered on the floor, torn and ruined by pools of black. There were blots of dry ink everywhere, even on the walls.

 

She almost stumbled on a broken bottle when she located him.

He was sitting on the floor, in the farthest corner, his back leaning on a wall, crouched and holding his head between his hands, and she got closer to him, alarmed by his uncharacteristic behaviour.

She could not read the expression on his face because of that damnable mask, but there was no need to ask what was happening—his research must have hit a dead end.

 

It was scary to observe the traces of his fit of rage.

 

And then it suddenly clicked, why the omniscient Hermaeus Mora, Daedric Prince of Fate, let his Champion plot his escape for so long. It must have been the only thread that kept Miraak sane in this hell.

 

She scolded herself for the knot of misplaced guilt she felt in her chest, and then snorted.

It was his own fault for dealing with a Daedra Prince and he should have absorbed her dragon soul when he had the chance to escape instead of going caveman on her.

 

The knot intensified, though, when she realised a little detail. He still had that chance.

All that time she had been at his mercy and he had not acted upon it—why?

She felt her head spin and had to lean against the nearest column.

 

Every piece started to fit, as if Julianos himself was inspiring the answer.

 

Hermaeus Mora had used her from the beginning.

 

It suddenly all made more sense, why Miraak had not known of her existence and why he had not recognized her. It had been Hermaeus Mora who sent those cultists and that dragon after her, in order to lure her to Solstheim, to make her actively hunt Miraak and enter Apocrypha. He tangled her up in Miraak's plans because after thousands of years, his servant had finally found a concrete way to flee from Apocrypha.

First she had been bait, later a means to get the Skaals’ secrets, and then as a twisted way to keep his insurgent Champion in check.

 

She felt ill. Miraak was not trying to restore his original plan for his own sake. _She_ was the one stuck there, with no way to escape. And he couldn’t find a way to get her out.

 

She had promised to herself to not cry anymore and be strong like a Dragonborn should, but at that realization she broke into sobs, and curled against the column like a kicked puppy. Was this the prize she got for giving up her future, for playing the hero everyone wanted her to be? After slaying Alduin, Akatosh had just tossed her out, like a useless, meaningless tool?

 

She choked her hiccups and glanced at Miraak.

He did not seem to be bothered by her outburst. Instead he continued to sit, motionless, like he had not heard her at all.

She approached him and tentatively touched his shoulder.

 

“ _Miraak, look at me. Look at me.”_

 

No reaction, and she felt her stomach churn.

She shook her head. He was pig-headed, yes, but it was through that strong will that he had endured all of this for thousand years. He was certainly not going to crack for less now.

He was not going to lose his mind like those two dragons... but he could still kill her to save himself. He was dangerous.

However, for now, Miraak seemed just a shell of his arrogant self... thus, vulnerable. He must have thought very little of her combat skills, because his guard was still down, that bastard.

She stared at the sheathed sword at his side.

One swift stab in his neck and she could devour his dragon soul, be free again.

She unsheathed the sword and placed the point of its blade near his exposed neck, but he did not flinch, didn't show any reaction at all. _For Azura_ , he just let her take his sword!

And that deeply upset her.

She gritted her teeth and tried to choke that unfitting feeling. His death would only be fair payback, for all the grief he had provided her, for using her to quench his cravings.

Her grip trembled.

He had been trying to help her.

No, he would kill her, it was only a matter of time before he tired of her.

But he had had plenty of chances so far and did not.

He did not.

Why didn't he?

And if his dragon soul wasn't enough?

She would remain alone.

Completely alone.

The sword clattered to the floor.

 

“ _I am an idiot. An idiot! You too, do you hear me? You are not worthy!”_

 

She was going mad. This place was making her mad.

She shook him hard against the wall to make him snap out of it, insulting him, with no success. Why was he not responding to her? What in Oblivion was wrong with him—didn't he see that he was scaring her to death?

 

She swallowed and blushed hard.

No.

No way.

Absolutely not.

 

But if that did not work..!

A brief, weird laugh escaped from her.

She should have Shouted at him then, and bent his will into doing what he should have done from the very beginning.

 

But she quickly unfastened his belt before she lost all of her nerve.

When she felt his body tense she was ready to chicken out and run away, like a pathetic, prim maiden. A part of her was amused. So _now_ he was responding, she thought, piqued. How typical. His chin slightly rose so that her widened eyes found themselves looking directly at the slits of his mask.

She felt like a naughty girl caught red-handed doing something terribly perverted, but she could not back down now. Her cheeks flushed as she diverted her gaze to look at his half-flaccid member and tentatively caressed it.

For Dibella's love, it could not be so difficult to arouse a man's... thing, right?

She tried to remember some of the descriptions in _The Lusty Argonian Maid_ for some useful clue.

That's it, she thought with determination as she touched with more audacity. She was going to vigorously “polish the spear” first. A harsh intake of breath and the growing thickness between her little hands assured her she was following the right path.

 

Soon prudishness left in place of curiosity, as she explored with inquisitive fingers the hardness that was rapidly swelling.

He continued to stay still, not making a noise, as if he was afraid to disturb her intent perusal and scare her away, like she was some kind of bashful wild animal. But all his muscles were tense in expectation.

With a finger, she traced the long bulging veins at the sides and mused how weird it was, that it was her first chance to look at it so closely, in spite of their previous intimate encounters.

Her thumb tentatively stroked the underside of its head and she watched how his already turgid shaft kept growing and getting even more red as she stroked a bit faster.

She gripped a bit harder to see if her thumb could at least brush her forefinger, but it twitched and he stifled a soft gasp. She quickly relented her grasp, worried to have hurt him in some way, when she noticed that it got even thicker, now fully-erected, and some drops of colourless fluid came out from the tip of its head. Emboldened by his rash intakes of breath, she moved her lips close enough to flick the drop with her tongue.

 

A musky smell pervaded her nostrils and she unconsciously licked her lips, pensive. To her surprise it had a salty flavour and not the bitter taste she had always imagined. She resumed to savour him again, sometimes with quick fast licks with the tip of her tongue, then she would travel his whole length, from base to tip, with slow, wet laps, gaining hissing, suffering groans she had never heard from a man.

 

That whimpering desperation lurking under those guttural grunts—she wanted it to hear it again, to come forth and fill the whole room with undeniable, overwhelming intensity, to rumble from the deepest recesses of his throat, so she parted her moistened lips and with torturous slowness enclosed his girth inside her warm, welcoming mouth, caressing the buried pulsing length with her teasing, slippery hot tongue, while her petite, inexperienced hands fondled its base with clumsy, but steadfast strokes.

 

His gloved fingers picked up a strand of long red locks that had fallen in front of her face, obscuring his view, and gently pulled them behind her ear, so that he could intently watch how her plump lips smoothly slipped up and down his shaft. He moaned huskily at the licentious sight before him and rested a hand on her head, burying his fingers in her fiery, messy mane.

She could feel how hot and throbbing his hardness had truly become when she wrapped her tongue around a part of its swollen girth that pulsated with restrained force.

His hips buckled harshly, sliding his cock even deeper inside her mouth, his hand gripping tightly in her hair, and she almost choked at being suddenly so full. Each spurt filled her with the unknown, new taste of his come, which she could only swallow down, and it briefly reminded her of salt and white caps, and the slight, bittersweet aftertaste of taproot.

He hoarsely groaned as he thrust with one final jerk, burying her head in his loins, reaching the last of his release between her soft lips.

 

She slowly raised her head, puffed cheeks red from the exertion, while he slackened back against the wall, his breathing still laboured.

 

With no warning she pulled away his mask, she needed to see the expression he was wearing and felt a sudden, intense rush of power in seeing that his eyes were tightly shut and observing the lingering tension that remained in his brows, at how an unusual redness diffused from his perspiring cheekbones, and how irregularly his breath escaped from his slightly parted lips.

At how much she had undone him.

His gloved hand rested on the nape of her neck and pulled her toward him.

 

“ _You will be the end of me.”_

 

Just a rough whisper, before his mouth greedily assaulted her own and his invading tongue devoured their first kiss, her first Dibellian kiss.

Trapped again between the floor and his heavy frame, she wondered if he could taste his lingering presence in her mouth.


	5. Push

**5.**   
**(Dah)**   


No matter how much she pried, Miraak refused to reveal what exactly had been the cause of his breakdown, or what would be his new course of action. He just behaved like it had never happened, or, to be more precise, preferred only to retain a selection of facts convenient to him. Meanwhile he continued perusing old dusty tomes in his workspace. There had been a subtle change of dynamics between them that he seemed to overlook, but it was something she could not forget or ignore.  
  
As she had feared, though, he soon became too complacent and fuller of himself than usual. When she asked him, out of nagging curiosity, to translate for her what was carved in the Dragon Wall of 'Div,' he even offered—not without a heavy dose of conceit—to teach her how to speak _Dovahzul_.  
She had nothing to do, no excuse to refuse, and it was clear the overbearing git wouldn't accept a no for an answer.  
  
So he would sit next to her, his mask lightly bent over her shoulder and an arm subtly resting around her waist, while he explained to her grammar structure or the meaning of some words she managed to decipher from some simple excerpts in _Dragon Language: Myth no More_.  
  
Usually the content of the lessons was quite entertaining, although sometimes he got so patronizing and insufferably arrogant when he corrected her mistakes that she felt an irrepressible urge to punch him, put him in his place and make him suffer in agony at her mercy.  
And then she would remember how quiet and wonderfully compliant he had been that unforgettable time he had really been under her whims, and the sweet rush of power she had felt from it. It would cause her to miss his next question and get further reprimanded for not paying enough attention.  
  
When she flipped out for the first time, she completely caught him by surprise.  
With no warning, during one of his tirades, she snapped the book shut, stood up, ripped open his robes, unbuckled his belt, and untied his trousers. His outraged cry died in his throat and he finally shut up as she settled between his legs and assaulted him with her mouth.  
  
The first few times he would just remain seated and let her do what she pleased, playing along quietly as long as she was on her knees and he could lazily watch how her full, reddened lips slid tightly around him, but soon she found herself unable to stop from pushing his self-control, each time postponing his release longer and longer with teasing, sloppy licks, just to see how much he could resist before he lashed back and hurled her at the nearest desk, bending her against it.  
  
 _“Tell me, dovahdin. Who is your nunon dovah, your only jun.”_  
 _“…”_  
 _“Say it!”_  
 _“Ah! Nunon... nunon hi...”_  
 _“Yes, hi los pah ungol. Mine to savour as I please, fod Zu'u praag.”_  
  
Sometimes, in the middle of that pleasurable haze, while he relentlessly pounded into her, she had a brief moment of lucidity and wondered what in Oblivion was wrong with her for doing that, and asked herself why she got so dripping wet every time. She had a gnawing suspicion that he kept exasperating her on purpose, just to get her between his legs.  
She could just picture that perverted drunkard of Sam Guevenne, toasting in the Bannered Mare with some spiced wine and congratulating her for, “Living her first raunchy affair with style, gal!”  
If that wasn't convoluted enough, though, it took them only a little push to fall into their old habit of provoking each other.  
  
 _“I'm fed up of doing nothing. I'm going to train, old man.”_  
 _“Really. Is that some kind of threat?”_  
 _“Just giving you a fair warning, because I'm such a good sport. So don't come sulking when I finally wipe the floor with your ass.”_  
 _“Please, don't make me laugh.”_  
 _“You know very well that without that Shout I would have totally owned you!”_  
 _“Sure. I suppose I will have to tutor you, then. You know, to give you a fair chance.”_  
 _“Arrogant jerk! I certainly don't need your help!”_  
 _“Really? I will be the judge of that.”_  
  
However, their first sparring match after their battle at the Summit had been quite anti-climactic.  
He was clearly not taking her training seriously, having fun at her expenses, throwing cocky quips about her posture, her techniques, the power of her shouts, and generally grating on her nerves being an obnoxious know-it-all. Bickering thus became a common occurrence during their training sessions.  
  
 _“So, tell me. When are you going to 'wipe the floor with my ass'? I am waiting.”_  
 _“You cheater! We were supposed to use only the Shouts I knew!”_  
 _“And lose my chance to be on top?”_  
 _“You men are all pigs!”_  
 _“Well, technically, my dear, I'm all dovah.”_  
  
All of a sudden, that last comment made her realize she knew very little about men, even less about dragons, and little to nothing about Miraak.  
  
She was trapped in the biggest archive of past, present, and future knowledge—why hadn't she thought to do some research on the matter? Especially now that she could read basic dragon language? “Know your enemy” was an overused motto that could not have fit better in her case, especially if she wanted to bring that arrogant ass down a peg or two during their next sparring.  
  
And so, while she searched through the shelves and found There Be Dragons, she had to admit she had cared very little to understand the way of the dovah, despite Paarthurnax's attempts.  
  
For her they were just big prey, slumbering alone at the peak of some isolated mountain she had to pin down on a map, hunt down, fight and devour—and then rinse and repeat, like a kind of odd, full-time job. A very lucrative occupation, though. Not only because of the valuable dragon bones, but because one could always find old chests full of riches, which they protected to the death.  
  
That was one quirk she had never understood about dragons, why timeless creatures would get so attached to treasures they could easily live without. They were so possessive that she had no worry they would fly away when they were close to death. It was enough to threaten to take away their precious chest and they would land on the ground, ready to get slaughtered.  
  
Some of them were hot-blooded enough to actively look for her. They would then soar out of reach, roaring over her head in challenge, and then fly off as a final taunt. Though in the end none managed to evade her Dragonrend for too long.  
That kind of behaviour was unexpectedly foolish for such highly intelligent and manipulative creatures, and it just made no sense, especially after she had defeated Alduin.  
She had asked for an explanation from Odahviing once, but he just gave her some half-baked answer before strolling away to fire at unwary mudcrabs. Yes, she thought, rolling her eyes, another of their inconsistencies—their ability to be as obsessive as they could be inattentive. So easily distracted by silly things!  
  
She then grabbed The Dragon War, and through a fast, superficial reading she discovered it had happened during the Merethic Era. The term itself told her nothing, but it was a trail to follow nonetheless, and thanks to that she decided to skim The Ages of Man. It was useless information but for the last past, which left her completely baffled.  
If that book report was accurate, and she had made her calculations right, Miraak was a six-thousand-year-old Atmoran. Six thousand. She had always supposed the jerk had been rotting there for at least a few centuries, but to be trapped in Apocrypha for six millennia? Six bloody millennia.  
  
 _“Enough. You clearly are not paying attention. If we continue you will end up getting hurt.”_  
  
If he had said that during any of their previous sparring, she would have retorted, incensed, with a stinging comeback, but her lack of commitment was so blatant that there was no way she could prove him wrong, and that just embittered her more.  
She had been distracted the whole fight, only one sour thought drumming incessantly in her head while she kept half-heartedly parrying and dodging his sword.  
  
How could she have been so stupid to believe that she, a nineteen-year-old girl, who learnt about her true heritage just few years ago, could have won against someone that had been Dragonborn for at least six thousand years? Divines, just the thought was laughable.  
She had been training with the Greybeards for barely a year, while Miraak had had for several millennia the whole knowledge of Apocrypha at the snap of his fingers.  
  
Perhaps it was because her life had been like the passing of a shooting star that she thought morosely. At fourteen she escaped from the Bruma orphanage, at fifteen she defeated Mirmulnir, at seventeen she became Alduin's Bane, and after her purpose had been gloriously completed, she attended apprentice courses for half a year at the Mages College, to see what all the great fuss about magic was. She had embraced and fulfilled her prophecy with the impetus of a Dwarven Centurion, just to sit forgotten in the library with that grumpy orc of Urag-gro Shub and decipher pedantic tomes for after-class assignments.  
  
And then Miraak appeared, with all the allure of a new heroic quest tailored just for her. Pity that in her rash overconfidence she had forgotten a tiny, little detail—that there was no Dragonrend counterpart for Alduin's substitute.  
  
No matter if she was nineteen or eighty or even a few centuries old, Miraak would just humour her while she kept making a fool of herself, and she would never catch up to him, and certainly not in a brief span of time.  
  
 _“You are not your usual self. What is wrong?”_  
  
His question rang sudden, succinct, and sharply direct after the end of their Dovahzul lesson.  
  
 _“Nothing.”_  
 _“Don't lie to me.”_  
 _“I will train alone from now on.”_  
 _“Why?”_  
  
That cold edge she was not used to hearing, prying by force thoughts she did not want to share—that was what made her spit it out, screaming at his face.  
  
 _“I don't want to spar with you anymore, so stop bothering me!”_  
  
Her surge of anger sounded so childish even to her ears that she just wanted to run away and hide somewhere in order to lick the wounds of her tattered self-esteem. But he stopped her, pulling her wrist so tightly that it almost hurt.  
  
 _“Tell me the reason. Now.”_  
  
She kept her mouth tightly shut, stubbornly refusing to look at him, but a traitorous blink let some tears of frustration silently escape from her glossy eyes.  
It seemed to mollify him, because he relaxed his grip, pulled away his mask and raised her chin, forcing her to make eye contact. Under his raw scrutiny she felt so pressured that her lips trembled, on the verge of pouring out all her bottled-up, conflicting emotions in undignified sobs.  
She had always had non-judgemental, caring Lydia to confide in, but no one existed but him to vent to, to talk to. He, who constantly kept raising the bar.  
  
 _“It is useless. Useless! You will never take me seriously!”_  
  
She bawled, giving up any attempt to keep up a strong façade, because what was the use?  
However, instead of ridiculing her for her outburst like she was expecting, he unexpectedly sighed, his shoulders visibly sagging, and then he chuckled.  
  
 _“Foolish girl, is it just that? Hurt pride?”_  
 _“As expected, you understand nothing!!!”_  
  
She screeched like a Hagraven, but he remained unperturbed, recognizing her aggressiveness for what it was—an attempt to regain something of her former composure.  
  
 _“Stop this nonsense. You know you could have been mighty if fate had decreed otherwise.”_  
 _“I don't need your pity, so leave me be!”_  
 _“I cannot. Did I not promise to teach you what even the Greybeards do not know?”_  
 _“Eh? Did you? When?”_  
  
He sighed again, making her feel like some petulant brat, and that made her bristle all the more.  
  
 _“You never pay enough attention. We will have to change that.”_  
 _“What do you mean?”_  
  
He did not answer, but pulled her over to sit on the bench, on his lap.  
  
 _“And stop coddling me like a damn child!”_  
  
She tried to wiggle out of his arms, but his embrace was too tight.  
  
 _“Don't be obtuse. I have clearly never done that, and I am surely not planning to start.”_  
  
He whispered suggestively in deaf ears. She was too busy hissing back her recriminations.  
  
 _“Liar! You purposefully restrained yourself at the Summit, from the very beginning!”_  
 _“So, of all the things, you chose to ruminate on that.”_  
 _“Ah! So you don't deny it!”_  
 _“You indeed never pay enough attention.”_  
  
And he dared to sigh again. She was going to say something spiteful just to antagonize him, when he did a most peculiar action that induced her to stop. He caressed her cheek with an intimate tenderness that she would have never expected from him.  
  
 _“Nonetheless, I've always found that competitive streak of yours fascinating._ ”  
  
The sultriness sneaking from that breezy comment completely deflated her temper, leaving her speechless, because it almost sounded... affectionate? As if reading her perplexed thoughts, he raised her chin to kiss her, but she backed up, a bit flustered.  
  
 _“Really, still shying away? I thought we were far beyond that now.”_  
  
He chuckled as he kissed her neck and his hands caressed her thighs under her gown. How annoyingly perceptive of him. Perhaps they had been on the same page for some time, but now...  
  
 _“Just relax.”_  
  
… How could she explain that even if he appeared to be a healthy Nord in his late forties, she couldn't stop thinking about the heaps of centuries that separated him from her ridiculous, almost non-existent, amount of experience? Or how she was now aware that she was awkwardly inadequate, immature, and childish? She didn't like to feel so out of control and thus, with the finesse of a giant, she blurted out part of her thoughts.  
  
 _“Don't you feel too old to deal with someone like me?”_  
  
His soft expression froze, like she had just poured a bucket of cold water over him.  
With no warning he stood up, dropping her on the floor like a sack of potatoes.  
  
 _“I see.”_  
  
Those were the only two words he hissed before walking away. She did not try to stop him or try to ask why in Nirn he had to react so violently to such an innocent question. From his vitriolic tone, she knew he was not just offended, he was livid, and so it was wiser to let him cool off first.  
  
As usual, all that kept happening between them continued to make little sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon language:
> 
> Div = wyrm  
> Dovahzul = dragon language  
> nunon dovah = only dragon  
> jun = man  
> nunon hi = only you  
> hi los pah ungol = you are all mine  
> fod Zu'u praag = when I need


	6. Inspire

**6\. (Shaan)**  
  
  
  
While Miraak sulked who knew where, she kept herself occupied looking for more Atmoran history, because surely a High Priest of Solstheim had been important enough to get his actions reported somewhere.  
Tall piles were scattered around her bent form, and titles like _Night of Tears_ and _Pocket Guide to the Empire, Third Edition: Atmora_ , were visible at the top. She resorted to reading even the boring collection of _History of Raven Rock_ , but no matter where she browsed she couldn't find any account of him, not even a little mention about Miraak's background.  
  
It was quite upsetting, but just when she was ready to give up and kick all the piles in frustration, she leafed through _The Guardian and the Traitor_.  
It turned out to be quite disappointing in the end, because it just retold with fancy words what Frea had said to her long ago, giving no further information, not even mentioning his name.  
She was going to just close it and be done with it when her eyes fell on a familiar long shadow.  
Miraak stood few feet behind her back. He was not stupid and he had already deduced what she was up to with just a glance at the titles.  
He picked up a book from the floor and held it out with contempt.  
  
“Research? Are you so foolish as to willingly throw yourself into the obsessive lures of Apocrypha?  
Meddling girl! I told you to come to me for anything you wished to know!”  
  
And then he walked away before she could formulate a decent comeback. She was taken aback at how his hissing voice carried more than an open scolding—there was also a dose of badly concealed resentment. He couldn't still be upset about that remark, right? She remained sitting on the floor, looking at his far, retreating form, just rolling her eyes at his touchiness. Sometime later, though, she found herself huffing, arms crossed and tapping her foot in mounting annoyance.  
How was she supposed to ask him anything if he was nowhere to be found?  
And as time passed her suspicion became certainty. At first it sounded ludicrous, but the more she looked around for him, the more she believed that the git was purposely avoiding her.  
  
She stepped in his personal chamber, when she found that it was conveniently unlocked.  
As expected from him, the dark room was neat and minimal, save for some scattered books on the desk. So it seemed he had been there. It was not in his character to leave things in disorder, so she approached his desk with some trepidation.  
  
She knew he was obsessed with his Dragonborn heritage, but all of the books here were only about the Last Dragonborn. How weird—there were also some that she had not read yet. It was a bit unsettling, to be completely honest. To her utter surprise she even found tomes that would have been published in the far future. Some were in poetic verse, and others just historical detail: _The Epic Deeds of the Legendary Dragon Maiden_ , _Alduin's Defeat_ , and Truths and Myths of _Akatosh's Daughter_.  
She grimaced at the titles; how pompous they sounded to her ears. Dragon maiden, really? What was that bard drinking? _Dovahdin_. She suddenly remembered how Miraak would sometimes call her that and blushed a bit. So Miraak had clearly researched her, but why?  
  
Unlike her he had it easy, she thought scornfully, there were so many titles and references that it was totally unfair. To think he had the gall to question her own research! He already knew everything about her past and she had nothing on him, not even a little clue. Only that useless book that talked about Vahlok and depicted him as a totally evil jerk. She briefly snickered, but then became thoughtful at the idea that it was a bit sad how nobody knew about the First Dragonborn. However, it had to be expected if one defied the ruling of their time. Weren't the Talmor, for example, actively censoring and changing anything written about Talos? Perhaps that was what the dragons had done, too, after Vahlok had defeated him. Nonetheless, Apocrypha was supposed to contain every kind of information, censored or not.  
And then she remembered what he had once said.  
  
“They wanted to use me to deal with Alduin, Hakon and the rest. I chose otherwise.”  
  
He had been strong enough to beat Alduin, and even had an army of rebels to back him in the war! So why hadn't he done that? It would have saved her a lot of trouble and she could have lead a simple, normal life, becoming an apprentice blacksmith under Eorlund Gray-Mane, just like she had planned in Bruma, completely unaware of the existence of that damn place called Apocrypha!  
  
She sat on his bed, fuming about something that could not be changed.  
If she had been him, she would have...  
  
She let that thought dangle unfinished when another one suddenly danced in her head.  
Perhaps that's why he seemed so interested in her past.  
She was what he could have been, if he’d chosen the other path. All those books would’ve been talking about him and his deeds, instead of hers. He would have been remembered as the hero that slew Alduin and freed humanity from his tyranny. Instead he was completely forgotten.  
  
How ironic that he then defeated Alduin's Bane.  
That battle at the Summit of Apocrypha had been his first real victory after thousands of years of imprisonment. A victory that nobody would know, either. No one but her.  
In the end, the only one that had recognized him as a worthy rival from the beginning had been her, because from her skewed point of view he had been The First, while she was just the last, the newcomer, and she wouldn't have noticed him, but gone her merry way, if not for Hermaeus Mora's machinations. The Prince who had then left her to him as a cruel mockery of a prize.  
  
Perhaps that was the reason he couldn't kill her.


	7. Balance

**7\. (Ro)**

 

“ _What are you doing here?”_

She could see from the brief hesitation in his straight posture that Miraak was taken aback at seeing her sprawled on his bed, reading one of his books.

The wait had been long, but it was the only way to corner him.

She sat on the edge of the bed and shut _The Dragon Huntress_. At the sight of the title his gloved hands curled into fists.

“ _How dare you snoop around my personal belongings!”_

 He was seething with the knowledge that she had rummaged through his drawers.

She could have answered that it was his own fault for not properly locking his door and vanishing for so much time with no notice, but she would not let him lead her astray from the topic she wanted to discuss, so she asked straight away, without preamble:

“ _Why haven't you escaped yet?”_

Miraak stood there, his reaction conveniently hidden by his mask.

For a moment she thought he was really pondering on the best way to explain himself to her, until he towered over her sitting form and, with one strong grip in her arm, hauled her to the room’s entrance.

“ _Get out. GET OUT.”_

Miraak never screamed. He had never lost his composure before.

Looking at how ruffled he became, she had her final proof.

“ _FUS RO DAH!”_

He did not expect it, her attacking first, in his own lair. His chest took the whole force of her Shout and he was hurled on the bed. She didn't lose any time and straddled him, hissing her warning.

“ _No, ni daar tiid. This time it is by my own terms, dii siifur mu'ul.”_

She ripped off his mask and his robe and grabbed his head with both hands to lock his mouth in a fierce, long kiss before he could Shout anything at her.

She clawed his hairy, muscled torso, while intently staring at his widened eyes as he gasped for air.

She could see the internal battle behind his shocked gaze, the need to take control fighting against the desire to see what she would do to him next.

He didn't seem to understand yet.

“ _Zu'u mahn, I ride the dovah! Gol Hah Dov!”_

The effect of the Shout was instantaneous—she could see it by the way his muscles tensed and his contracted jaw relaxed. Outrage glittered in his black eyes, lined with promises of merciless retribution.

As she untied his belt and trousers she wondered how long the effect would last. Those words of power were relatively new to her and she was not sure if her Thu'um was strong enough to keep his will at bay for too long.

That made her undress faster and unfasten his loincloth.

She smirked at the sight and threw a glance at the clash of emotions raging in his eyes.

He was hard and she felt herself get even more soaked at the confirmation that she got it right, that she was finally understanding the conflicting urges of that twisted man.

She delicately squeezed his throbbing member and leaned down to tease it with her tongue, observing with devilish pleasure at how tightly he shut his eyes. She had learnt enough tricks by now to know which spots to lick to intensify his powerless suffering. Oh yes, he taught her well indeed.

“ _Now I finally get why you can't hurt me.”_

She told him this with a sultry voice he had never heard before just as her warm folds slowly descended and wrapped around his swollen hardness, until she was completely riding him.

“ _All was mine from the beginning, right? Kopraan, zahreik, hadrim.”_

She sighed lustfully, looking down at him from half-closed lids, observing how he was at her mercy. All the while she slowly rocked against him, letting him watch helplessly how she completely unravelled.

The way rosy tint of her cheeks matched her wild hair, the satisfied smile she tried to temper by nibbling her bottom lip, how her luscious, soft breasts wobbled with each little motion, and how her tight walls squeezed his cock. It was driving him mad.

However, it was not enough, and she started to caress his chest, smothering his neck and torso with a trail of scorching kisses, while he could do nothing.

“ _Infatuated and forlorn dovah, do not fret, though. Zu'u laan hi rem.”_

It was like those words pushed him enough to finally snap out of her control, and she found herself suddenly pressed on her back, her wrists pinned over her head, her mouth invaded by his own, and their roles abruptly reversed. A shudder ran through her spine when he whispered with a deep growl:

“ _That's the risk of riding a volg dovah, my dear. In the end he will buck you off. Gol Hah!”_

He didn't use the whole Shout—he wanted to give her a chance to get free. Such a twisted man.

She would show him soon how much she wanted to fight him, rival him in any way, if only she could gather enough concentration to break from the Shout, and he was not making it any easier, not the way he kept fondling her breasts and biting the curve of her neck, or sliding inside her with slow, hard thrusts, reaching that spot he knew made her shiver with need.

From the challenging smirk he wore he was keeping that low, torturous pace on purpose.

That insufferable, conceited jerk. He was clearly enjoying her feeble whimpers and weak attempts at getting free. Payback, or a contorted way to give her more time? She moaned as he nibbled her earlobe. Perhaps both. There would be no satisfaction in his victories if she were meek and subdued.

She would never bend to his will, he knew that, but he was also aware that she loved challenges.

She rose again, finally breaking free, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pushing him into a sitting position, with her legs tightly hooked around his waist.

She buried her face in the crook of his neck, moaning in his ear as they rocked with abandon against each other, until she arched back, a scream escaping her lips. With her walls tightening around him, he could not delay anymore and followed her with a low groan, letting her warm vice squeeze him until he was completely depleted.

He slipped out and laid next to her. With their hands intertwined and tiredly smiling at one another, they sealed their silent deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon language:  
> ni daar tiid = not this time  
> dii siifur mu'ul = my own rule  
> Zu'u mahn = I decide  
> Gol Hah Dov = Earth Mind Dragon  
> Kopraan, zahreik, hadrim = Body, heart, mind  
> zu'u laan hi rem = I want you too  
> volg = untamed


	8. Allegiance

 

**8.**

**(Mir)**

 

They were sprawled again in their bed.

 

“ _Cuddle me, will you?”_

 

She was becoming more clingy, but he indulged her nonetheless, playing his part well, as always. Familiar arms wrapped her waist, pushing her back against his chest. She entwined his hands between hers, and started to fiddle with his fingers. She was in a melancholic mood.

 

“ _Tell me again about fate... and us.”_

 

Her request was vague, but there was no need to specify what she needed to hear, and so he humoured her like usual, burying his nose in her hair and whispering near her ear with a deep, soothing voice, all promises of freedom, information about his search of a new way to escape from Apocrypha, and how he would take care of everything. Other times, however, when he was in a disheartened mood, too, he would quietly chide her for not plunging his sword into his neck and escaping when he had given her ample chance long ago. The huskiness in his voice betrayed him, though, revealing how much he was still tortuously revelling in her choice.

 

Much later, as he slowly opened up, she could truly wander through the depths of Miraak's obsession over fate and their shared heritage.

 

“ _There is no space for happenstance in Akatosh's designs.”_

 

He kept reminding her of this, almost like a mantra.

 

“ _I saw a refuge from Akatosh's puppetry in Hermaeus Mora's disguised cage.”_

 

He confided to her once, while they lazily strolled through an aisle.

 

“ _How foolish, don't you agree? To exchange one Master for another. Or so I believed, until I saw you.”_

“ _How is that relevant? I don't understand.”_

“ _Of course you do not. You have never fully pondered the implications of our common legacy.”_

“ _How lucky, then, that I have you now to enlighten me with your profound wisdom.”_

“ _...”_

“ _It was sarcasm or a kick in the shin.”_

“ _I see this topic bores you. My apologies, I did not notice.”_

“ _By Azura, don't get touchy on me now…”_

“ _...”_

“ _All right. We are a bit touchy and that was uncalled for.”_

“ _We?”_

“ _I. Now go on and stop smirking.”_

“ _One Master is linear and set in his ways, while the other is unvarying, yet fickle.”_

“ _In Common, please? And don't dare sigh!”_

“ _Well... Tell me then, Last Dragonborn, of a time you acted by your own volition.”_

 

Her first thought was to comment upon how stupid that question was, but she just remained there, gaping at him while she tried to fish for a witty answer.

Her memories skimmed through all of her past until an old, grey building took shape in her mind, and then overlapped with a blurred vision of Bruma’s outer walls, slowly fading away from her limited view inside the Khajiit caravan.

And so they started discussing about the range of individual free will in a predetermined path, like a divine prophecy. She could see now what he was implying, but she could not shake the sensation that he was turning her attention to other facets of the topic on purpose, that there was an important part that she was still missing.

 

“ _I was sure that Akatosh had forsaken me, you know,” h_ e said then out of the blue, breaking their silence and her lethargy. They got in that strange habit of sitting on the edge of the platform after a sparring session, both staring at the uninspiring expanse of black, bubbling ink. She did not comment on the absurdity of that statement and waited to see if he would add something else. He did not disappoint—he seemed to be in a brooding mood.

 

“ _It would have been easier, though.”_

 

She rolled her eyes. Pity that following his jumps between unconnected thoughts was like solving a Dwemer puzzle with a pair of pincers: a headache.

 

“ _Easier what? To be forsaken?”_

“ _If you were a man.”_

“ _Oh, I see. How sexist!”_

“ _I would have killed you, no doubt.”_

“ _It was not so bad! I could do better if I had decent armour for a change, and you know it!”_

“ _At the Summit, you fool.”_

 

Now the subject was unmistakable, and she kept quiet.

“At the Summit”—words that together indicated an event almost too taboo to cite between them. They had not still put a foot in that place yet, at least not together. It was like it had never existed.

 

That heavy, unnatural silence between them was becoming unnerving and so she shared the first thought that crossed her mind.

 

“ _If I remember well, it is larger than Sahrotaar's platform.”_

 

She had to use 'it.’ She still couldn't say the proper name without some discomfort.

 

“ _We could train there, sometimes.”_

 

He stood up and did not answer. It was clear he did not like the idea.

 

“ _Why not?”_

“ _Stop asking stupid questions.”_

 

She couldn't brush off the sting she suddenly felt from being at the receiving end of such unexpected churlishness. Usually that was her prerogative, and he was the one to handle it with impeccable style, unlike her, who proceeded to poke him further.

 

“ _What? Don't tell me that staying in that place makes you uneasy.”_

“ _If I remember correctly, I am not the one that lost there.”_

“ _Yeah, sure. That's why you are still here—because you’re worried about my sensitivity. So if I'm okay with it, no problem, right?”_

 

She must have said something right despite her boldness, because he abruptly grabbed her wrist and marched to another aisle, the one she knew was directly connected to Sahrotaar's abode. He did not utter a single word for the whole ride, not even to complain about how she kept squeezing her arms around his waist on purpose, in order to get some reaction. She was starting to suspect that for he was aggravated, but was trying to repress it.

 

“ _Are you satisfied now?”_ he just commented with a flat tone, when Sahrotaar landed. It was strange to be there again, in the very place where everything ended and started at the same time. It suddenly felt like she had leaped back in time, but within a different perspective.

 

“ _I forgot how wide it was—it_ is _. Did we really run back and forth all this distance?”_

 

She frowned and waited. No answer. It was like chatting with the floor, or worse, Relonikiv. So, when she almost reached the centre, she turned back to ask what the hell was wrong with him, only to notice that he was nowhere near, but was still standing next to Sahrotaar, watching her with crossed arms from afar.

 

“ _Well, what are you waiting for?”_

“ _Come, we're leaving.”_

“ _Now? Why?”_

“ _For once, just hush and do as I say!”_

 

She would have gotten extremely offended and would have started to yell, if it wasn't for the weariness transpiring from his voice. Perhaps she had been right in her teasing. That place made him uneasy too, and he brought her there just to prove her wrong. That proud idiot. She ran back to him and grabbed his arm to pull him towards the centre. She would certainly not make it easier for him if that was the case.

 

“ _No, this is the perfect chance to keep your promise.”_

“ _What are you talking about?”_

“ _You have to teach me Telekinesis, so that I can take books from the higher shelves.”_

“ _Stop fooling around, I never promised you that.”_

“ _How can you be so sure?”_

“ _You have not mastered the required skills.”_

“ _You call casting Magelight a skill?”_

“ _Do not be difficult. Come.”_

 

She was too soft for her own good.

 

“ _Idiot, don't you get it? The only way to forget a bad experience is to replace it with something better! So come on.”_

“ _As if it could be so easy. Such a plain mentality. However, knowing your simple-minded ways, I cannot expect more.”_

 

She clenched her fists and lowered her chin, glaring at a spot on the floor.

She would have never imagined that his cold shoulder, the sharp steel of his tone, or the venom imbued in his deliberate insult, could hurt her so much. So it was happening.

 

“ _I know what your problem is, bastard,”_ she murmured with barely contained rage. Her arms were trembling.

 

“ _You are regretting your choice!”_

 

The silence was deafening after her yell.

 

“ _Choice? Stupid, ignorant girl. I did not have a choice.”_

 

He hissed this, incensed, his voice rising after each word.

 

“ _I only fooled myself in believing that.”_

 

“ _Liar, LIAR! Don't spew that bullshit fate excuse to me. You here made a fucking choice!”_

 

He moved with remarkable speed and held her forearms in a tight grip before she could back away.

 

“ _How handily tenuous are your memories!”_

 

He was shouting too now.

 

“ _When you destroyed the pillars. When you made a deal with Hermaeus Mora._ Then _you robbed me of my last semblance of choice! You do not see it yet, do you? How convenient of you to be my opposite and appear in my path just when I was going to return to Nirn!”_

 

She would have slapped him with all the strength in her arm if she had one of them free from his grasp. How dare he unload his responsibilities upon her.

 

“ _What I see is a man that didn't have the balls to carry his own burdens! Those coming from the very power he keeps parading around! Not even the outcomes of his wimpy decisions! And then, he has the gall to dump his own faults on others!”_

 

“ _Enough! Do not provoke me.”_

 

His voice was trembling from the rage, but she was too furious to care anymore.

 

“ _Or what? Will you kill me and finally make the fucking choice that makes you happy?”_

 

He shook her shoulders, shouting at the top of his lungs, and strands of hair covered her vision.

 

“ _VIK HI! You idiotic girl, dur hin sahkren! Not an ounce of self-preservation, hren punah! Do not presume to preach to me, when you do exactly what you accuse me of!”_

 

His chest visibly lifted up and down, out of breath, and heavy pants could be heard, amplified by the mask.

 

“ _Tell me, whose fault is it that you are trapped here! Akatosh's? Hermaeus Mora's?”_

 

He added this hoarsely, with a trace of composure, but no less fury.

 

“ _Mine?”_

 

She wished with all her heart to scream yes, it was, but she knew what his rebuttal would be. He had not forced her to go back to Solstheim and delve into Apocrypha again, or make a deal with a Daedra. And she could not deny it.

 

The more time passed, the more he seemed to regain his former aplomb. He released her arms from his hold. His tone was again smooth like ice.

 

“ _We shouldn't have come here. It was foolish.”_

“ _No, you finally spat out what you were really thinking.”_

 

From his rigid posture she could see how that statement completely struck him.

 

“ _How... manipulative of you.”_

“ _I did not win Alduin with my pretty face.”_

 

It was intended to be a simple barb, but she caught too late how that phrase could be misinterpreted in another way. He tipped her chin up and slowly passed a thumb over her lips. The coldness of the leather chilled her.

 

“ _These little lips of yours are indeed your most effective weapon.”_

 

She couldn't help but blush—that had been intentionally worded to convey a very different meaning.

 

“ _You know, I had planned at first to seduce you with the offer of more power.”_

 

He pulled with deliberate slowness the sash of her dress.

 

“ _But I soon noticed you were too idealist to accept that.”_

 

She understood now what was happening.

 

“ _Given your age, I concluded that appealing to your callow notion of romanticism would be more effective.”_

 

Miraak did nothing without purpose. There were always multiple motives behind his actions, even the simplest. For example, why he had chosen to give her that white dress long ago, among those few he had? It didn't hide her curves, and it was the easiest to disrobe.

 

“ _I would have told you we were fated by the gods to be together.”_

 

There was a reason he brought her there. She had been pushing him around for too long, with too much _Fus_.

 

“ _And then I would have promised you the moons and stars to spread your legs.”_

 

She felt the soft fabric of the dress fall over her feet.

 

“ _Ah, if only it could be so.”_

 

It did not bother her to be completely naked while he was fully clothed.

She was so attuned to his moods now that there was not need to study the subtle shifts in the expression he safely hid behind the mask.

His gloved hands lazily caressed the side of her breast and the curve of her hip. The leather and the metal around his wrists felt hard and cold, and a shiver ran through her spine.

 

“ _So easily mislead from waiting for my return, just as you should have been.”_

 

He was doing that to level the field. He wanted to return to that semblance of dominance he once had. It did not bother her, though, not when she was aware of the power she held over him. She would indulge his need of being in charge, if that would restore _Ro,_ that balance she had inadvertently unsettled.

He pushed her on the cool floor, and his frame loomed over her, covering her vision and her pale skin with the rough fabric of his robes. Smooth, chilling leather slid between her thighs, rubbing against her mound, a finger sinking deep inside. She moaned.

 

“ _I should resent you for ensnaring me like this.”_

 

Yes, they both were losers, but she could feign to be his hard-earned consolation prize and go along with his wish of _Dah_ , if that's what he needed from her.

 

Miraak was obsessed with control. He was always feeling like it was torn from him, first by the dragons, then by Akatosh, even more by Hermaeus Mora. And now by her.

 

“ _Faster.”_

 

She whimpered and weakly tried to rise and wrap her arms around his neck, only to have both of her wrists forcefully pinned with his other hand over her head. She arched against him and whined.

 

“ _Faster, what?”_

“ _Aah! …Faster, please!”_

 

She threw a coy look and sheepishly writhed under his gaze as he did exactly the opposite of what she begged, slowly withdrawing his wet fingers. It wasn't just him. She also knew how to play her part well. He kept her pinned down while he unbuckled his belt.

 

“ _Yes. Fate will not rob me again of what is rightfully mine.”_

 

A long, long time ago she would have cringed at such proclamations, but now they only quieted her mounting anxiety, because she could feel it more and more, how her soul was starting to anchor with the plane of Apocrypha.

 

She didn't have the courage to break the topic with him, but she had lost any hope of returning to Nirn. She couldn't help but wonder with a trace of paranoia if he had already noticed, but preferred to make no comments. She was not nagging him anymore about every new theoretical possibility of escape he was studying, and he was perceptive enough to surmise everything from that subtle change. Nonetheless, she continued to help him in his research, or, to be more precise, pretended to do so. They both knew it was just to keep him company because she wasn't able to decipher at least three-quarters of the books he picked, and she got side-tracked reading weird novels or slacked off drawing silly sketches.

 

“ _Miraak, I was thinking.”_

 

She finally put down _The Cabin in the Woods_. She had not turned a page for some minutes.

Miraak was sitting on the opposite side of the large stone table, surrounded as usual by piles of dusty, illegible tomes.

 

“ _Mmm. Why the happy event?”_

 

He did not lift his gaze from a heavy, large tome she supposed was a lexicon he was consulting to translate a thinner book written in mysterious glyphs.

 

“ _Smartass. It's about us and our time together.”_

“ _I see. You are already to that stage, then,”_ he commented airily while he kept tracking the page with a finger.

 

“ _Eh?”_

“ _Dissecting the dynamics of the relationship.”_

“ _You really are a cretin. I'm being serious! Haven't you noticed that most of our interactions tend to revolve around sex?”_

“ _So?”_

“ _So that's not good!”_

“ _I beg to differ.”_

“ _Of course you do. I mean, we should expand our activities, do something different.”_

“ _Like what?”_

“ _Well...”_

 

He shut the Lexicon, wrote some notes in that scrawny calligraphy of his, and picked another book from the nearest pile. From the look it seemed of Dwemer origin.

 

“ _Let me guess, we should refine our communicative skills, but you have no idea how.”_

“ _How... how in Oblivion did you know that?”_

 

This time he stopped reading, folded his gloved hands on the desk, and bent conspiratorially toward her to whisper in that condescending, deep tone that was much too familiar now.

 

“ _You see, I am not blind. Hiding those Mara's pamphlets like a thief—how unimaginative of you._

_By the way, the activity you are looking for is conversation, so let's start, shall we? Tell me, how does one feel being caught red-handed?”_

 

Sithis and damnation, he knew about the pamphlets!

 

“ _I was not—”_

 

Oh Divines, had she really squeaked? She couldn't suppress the impulse of covering her mouth with a hand. How humiliating!

 

“ _You insufferable git! Stop laughing! Now!”_

 

She got back on track much later, when he was relaxing in bed, and thus had his guard down.

She dropped carelessly over him, with the grace of a horker.

 

“ _I am not made of Stalhrim.”_

“ _Don't snooze, then.”_

“ _And how could I now?”_

 

He must have thought she would remain quiet, because he closed his eyes again, so she went on sulkily.

 

“ _There is nothing wrong with me reading Mara's pamphlets.”_

“ _Divines, still dwelling on that...”_

 

She tapped her finger against his chest to reinforce her point.

 

“ _Because I know how you overanalyse things. Whatever your conclusion is, that’s not it.”_

“ _Just let me meditate in peace, will you?”_

 

And with a hand he lowered her head to lay it on his chest, in the hopes of lulling her into shutting up. Like that had ever worked. It just made her ruminate more.

 

“ _If you were in Skyrim, would have you married?”_

 

She could almost hear a silent groan.

 

“ _And pray tell, why should I have?”_

“ _Oh, silly me, of course not. You are so insufferable nobody would want you near.”_

“ _Except for you.”_

“ _How conceited. Stop misconstruing everything I say! Can't I ask anything out of curiosity anymore?”_

 

She kept glowering at him, trying to wipe that annoyingly mellow expression from his face, but with no results. Time to change tactics.

 

“ _Should I think you don't love me then?”_

 

The contraction of his facial muscles, and that almost imperceptible widening of his eyes, was enough incentive to deepen her frown, even though she was internally snickering. Oh yes, she had him cornered now! Let's see how he was going to weasel out of it this time.

 

“ _You are getting too good at this.”_

“ _Ah-ah, flattery won't help you. Well?”_

 

She caressed his jaw, her chin tilted to one side, pulling off a soft gaze full of promises. Her parted rosy lips lingered just inches from his, as her long red hair, flowing between her shoulders, covered his field of view. Dibella would have been so proud of her.

He sighed, sounding resigned. Yes, flawless victory.

 

“ _Be well aware that some gods won't bless a union between siblings.”_

“ _What?”_

“ _We are children of Akatosh, aren't we?”_

 

He even had the audacity to smirk at his own ruse. She blushed in anger—how easily he sneaked off!

 

“ _You and your damn roundabout ways!”_

 

So he won again at their little game. How unfair.

 

“ _They won't work forever.”_

“ _Now, my dear, do not be a sore loser.”_

 

In the end, after some more prodding, she rewarded him with a long, languid kiss.

 

Hermaeus Mora's mass of tentacles curled in the bottomless abyss as his main eye watched all that happened in his realm from far away, well beyond the dark veil of hidden knowledge.

All was flowing as... _**expected**_. Just a little... _**push**_ and it would only be a matter of... _**time**_.

He hummed contently and descended.

 

“ _ **I see you got well... acquainted...”**_

 

The Daedric Prince ignored the Last Dragonborn's inhuman screech and continued on in his unperturbed buzz. Miraak could not blame her for almost making him deaf and choking his neck. After all, an amorphous mass of yellow eyeballs and slimy tentacles appeared with no warning, from nowhere, and was currently dangling few feet over their heads.

He threw at her a fast glance of warning and subtly moved forward to cover her from the Daedra's line of sight. Hermaeus Mora chuckled. Yes, it was indeed... _**time**_.

 

“ _ **How... favourable... for you to get along... so well...”**_

 

He drawled this, not giving them an opportunity to question his sudden appearance.

 

“ _ **... Now... you will have to complete... a mission... in my name. You will retrieve... my Oghma Infinium... and punish those filthy followers of Stendarr... that dared kill... one of my servants... and steal it... again.”**_

 

The First and the Last Dragonborn exchanged an incredulous look.

Did they hear him right? Hermaeus Mora was really going to let them out of there, just to get a book? They could not even begin to outline their thoughts in some form of a sentence—Hermaeus Mora's tentacles had already sprouted from the floor to swallow them into the deepest blackness of the abyss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon language:  
> Fus = Force  
> Ro = Balance  
> Dah = Push  
> Vik hi = Damn you  
> Dur hin sahkren = curse your tongue  
> hren punah = mad female


	9. Time - Fridas, 16th of Mid Year

**9.**  
 **(Tiid)**  
  
 **\- Fridas, 16th of Mid-Year: Mid-Year Celebration -**  
  
  
The vividness of Skyrim’s night sky was more intense than she remembered. It almost scorched her sight with its breathtaking beauty.  
  
A puff of humid, chilling air prickled her throat and filled her lungs.  
That crispy air, so different from the lukewarm staleness of Apocrypha, was overloaded with many pungent, different smells. She shook her head to avoid, only it in vain. Each new gasp of breath seemed unbearable, and she felt like its odd density was slowly choking her.  
  
She tried to calm herself, to breathe in a slower, steadier rhythm, but she just couldn’t concentrate, not with that breeze pounding an overwhelming jumble of loud sounds into her head.  
  
She remained still, her gaze fixed over the hypnotic glow of the two moons of Nirn. Minutes flew away with the cold wind as she waited for her numb senses to reacclimatise with the world of the living.  
  
That same chill, however, insidiously seeping inside her muscles, anchored her stupefied mind back to the harsh reality. They couldn't stay exposed to that weather for too long, especially with her in that flimsy dress, or they would awaken next morning to banquet with Shor in Sovengarde. So she forced herself to stand up, despite the intoxicating overload of sensations, and look around.  
  
Miraak was still laying just a few feet away from her, and she crouched next to him, hesitating to touch him. From the way he was clutching his head, she feared his experience was even worse than hers.  
  
“Hey,” she softly murmured, hoping to avoid a reaction to flee. “Miraak? It's just me... I'll help you rise, so don't push me back.”  
  
He seemed to recognize her and nodded slightly, so she gathered his mask and the Black Book Hermaeus Mora left near him, and with one of his arms around her shoulders, she helped him walk towards the ruins she immediately recognized as his former temple.  
  
She laid him over some pelts she found around the main hall, and he remained inert for hours, an arm shielding his sight as his jaw tightened to suppress a snarl of pain. By the time he recovered most of his senses, the flames of their little bonfire needed to be revived again.  
  
When she returned with more ruined books, she found him sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, gazing pensively at the vivid flames. He slowly stroked the title of the Black Book in his hands.  
  
 _Waking Dreams_. She placed the pile on the floor and threw him a suspicious glance.  
Despite the sensory overload he was enduring, Miraak's lack of emotion was nonetheless puzzling. He was too quiet for someone that, for millennia, had harboured the desperate craving to flee from Apocrypha. Something was definitely odd.  
She, on the other hand, was internally quivering, doing her best to restrain herself from jumping around excitedly and squeaking in joy—or, perhaps, loudly singing outlandish praises to all the Nine Divines in that off-key squawk of hers. She was so happy that she would already have clutched him in a lethal bear hug and cackled like a mad woman if not for his current state of debilitation.  
So she contented herself to just bend next to his ear and whisper in jest.  
  
“No need to hide that foolish grin from me, you know.”  
  
If her hunch was right, she had to show him it was of little use wearing his mask.  
  
“What? I... I am not!”  
  
It was her turn to grin like a fool. The embarrassment in his voice was so limpid it immediately gave him away. In the end, she couldn't refrain herself, and she strangled him in a tight hug, shrilling in glee.  
  
“We are out! We are out! We are out!”  
  
Her giddiness must have been contagious, because he let out a throaty laugh.  
  
“That we are, indeed.”  
  
He then sighed, suddenly sombre again, and she disentangled her arms from his neck to frown better at him. So there was something to grind out, after all.  
  
“Aren't you happy?”  
“Of course I am.”  
“Why the sulking, then?”  
“Don't be silly. I am not.”  
“Sure, that's why you are moping.”  
“You cannot refute with a synonym!”  
“I can, when it's a fact. So?” She waited, undeterred, her intense scowl pinned on his mask until he finally caved in with a guttural grumble.  
“It is too good to be true.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“His order.”  
“Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, right?” By the way he slightly inclined his chin, she could imagine the deadpan gaze he sent to her as she completely missed the point.  
“You are so exasperating! Can you for once be clear?”  
“How can you be so slow is beyond me.” He even snorted—the gall of that man. “Remind me again, Dragonborn, what his exact order was.”  
She bristled at his heavy coat of haughtiness. “Are you messing with me?”  
“Just humour me.”  
“To kill all of Stendarr's followers and fetch this Oghma book.”  
“And tell me, what happens if we do not comply?”  
  
It never crossed her mind that they could _not_ complete the mission. She was too goal-oriented for that… and then there was Hermaeus Mora's threat of retaliation. However, now that she pondered it, the Daedra did not set a specific date by which to complete his order.  
  
She muttered absent-mindedly to herself. They technically could, then, postpone the duty and stay in Nirn as long as they liked, and they would not incur his wrath. A Daedra Prince could be many things, but he never went back on his word, not even one like Clavicus Vile.  
  
“Nothing happens, as long as we are going to do it. Oh.”  
“Exactly, ‘oh.’ The loophole is too obvious, too convenient. This is another one of his schemes.”  
“So you think he is after something else. What, then?”  
  
He didn't answer right away, but mused for a while, like he was already pondering upon the best course of action.  
  
“It is certainly not the Oghma Infinium.” An odd note of loathing stained his assurance, but his next statement was subtly revealing. “Hermaeus Mora's favourite lure, the proverbial carrot to make his designated pawn dance to his tune. This time, though, it is mere smoke and mirrors.”  
  
She had a hunch that she had to dig deeper, due to the way he masterfully deflected a straight answer. He was a walking tangle of conjectures. No way that he did not have at least one idea to share. Nonetheless, she didn't want any of his grim speculations to ruin her little bubble of happiness, so she let it go for the moment. After all, they had so much time to brood about it later.  
  
There was something, though, that she had to make crystal clear, just in case, so she folded her arms and looked at him pointedly. He could be such a pig-headed, proud idiot, and she didn't want to take any chances.  
“Don't even think about completing the quest!”  
The very insinuation offended him. It was visible from his sudden rigid posture.  
“Do you really take me for a fool?”  
“But you are thinking of ways to spite him, aren't you?”  
  
Ha! His silence was more than enough confirmation. He was going to drag her into another mess.  
  
“It's alright,” she conceded, with a wide, flirty grin, and embraced his neck again. “I will indulge that rebellious, sexy streak of yours.” And he scoffed, averting his gaze in a gesture that clearly concealed embarrassment. “As long as we do not end trapped there again. So now what?”  
  
He cleared his throat, like he was still taken aback by her unusual choice of words. She took note for later musings, because if it poked, it was worthy of further investigation.  
  
“First we need to retrieve enough gold from the Temple.”  
“There's not a coin there. I cleared everything with Frea. Every single urn.”  
“Do not worry, you did not take all the Temple had to offer.”  
“Seriously?”  
“Yes, I doubt you reached the Sanctum Sanctorum.” He stood up and offered her his hand.  
“Come.”  
  
They ventured beyond the four main rooms, walking through that small passage that led to the large chamber full of hanging cages. She couldn't help but tense at the scene, even if it was nothing new, as she remembered Frea's speculations. He must have felt it from the hand he held, because he slightly squeezed it to get her attention.  
  
“Yes, it is a gruesome sight. Alduin let them starve to death, an example to those that smouldered fantasies of rebellion, but I soon reciprocated. None of his bootlickers escaped my temple.”  
  
She did not comment, but quietly followed him, down to the pit and into the subterranean corridor. There was a lurking, cold anger and unapologetic smugness in his little admission, a clashing mix that left her even more torn and unsettled between a crooked, but comfy sympathy and the acknowledgement of a viciousness she preferred to ignore.  
  
They did not find any draugr in the crypts. She had done a very good job at clearing them all, and quickly passed through the deactivated swinging axe blades to enter what Frea had identified as Miraak's Sanctum. They did not stop as she expected, however, and she noticed, while sending him questioning glances, how the gaze behind the mask scanned the rooms they passed thoroughly.  
  
“You really pillaged everything.” He sounded slightly piqued, like she had in some way unknowingly robbed him of his treasures. “What did you do with all that gold?”  
“Remember the enchanted armour you ruined? Well, I paid a fortune.”  
“Oh, so you dressed up for the occasion,” he mocked with uncalled-for innuendo, just to grate her. “I am flattered. So I will have to buy you a new set. Again.”  
“Ah-ha. How generous of you. And whose fault is that? It's the least you could do!”  
  
He did not rise to the bait, though, too engrossed in inspecting a wall. They were in a room with a desk full of paper rolls and spell tomes, a place she suspected was once one of his study rooms. She had nonchalantly rummaged through it only for gem stones to sell, like the lowbrow warrior she was.  
  
“Here it is,” he muttered as he pressed a stone, which at first sight was completely like the rest of the wall. “We are lucky this hidden passageway exists.” Oxidised mechanisms creaked and an open trapdoor appeared just next to the desk. He took her hand again and led her into the unknown passage.  
“It would have been fairly easy to breach into the Sancto Sanctorum, if the secluded priestly section was still accessible.”  
  
The tunnel was pitch dark, tortuous, and the more they advanced, the more it narrowed, forcing them to walk tightly next to each other. She squeezed her eyes as Miraak's renewed Magelight floated just few inches from her nose, blinding her. He stopped to cut another thick cobweb and threw a lightning bolt in front of them. A _Yol-Tol-Shur_ echoed in the tunnel, and the farthest flames charred some eggs and more webs. The whole path was infested by spiders and with all those stops it seemed to have no end, until he pulled a chain, partly hidden under a burnt spider nest.  
  
Strong beams of light filtered from the cracked debris that covered sturdy, but complex architecture, similar to that of a Dwemer vault. It took her a while to recognize its function as she touched one of the nearest carvings in awe. It was supposed to be an extendible dome, there to let a dragon fly inside or just perch at the edges. The room was oval, wider than a Cyrodillic arena, and all the walls were richly decorated with Ancient Nordic motifs and panels of Atmoran celebratory events.  
  
Impressive amounts of treasures and chests shone from afar, piled at the base of the main, enormous statue that towered over them. Even if the intense light hadn’t sparkled against the little mounds of gold, she couldn't sever her sight from the sculpture as she walked towards it. She sat on the embellished stone block, placed few feet away from its base, and let her entranced stare wander over all the little details. Those ebony wings, the ruby eyes, that unforgettable maw. They belonged to none other but Alduin, Firstborn of Akatosh.  
  
“In this consecrated ground.” Miraak's voice resounded behind her back, along with the faint clang of his boots. “In front of this very effigy.”  
  
He breezed past her, only to stop in front of the large, deep niche at the base of the statue, where precious urns and ceremonial robes were neatly guarded.  
  
“All Solstheim priests convened to prostrate at its feet.” He unlocked the small decorated lockbox.  
  
“We were bound to bring offerings to Alduin's altar at the beginning of every season.”  
  
He took a necklace from the box and then, with little explanation, walked toward her, gently lifted her unruly mane, and clasped it around her neck. She looked at her chest and observed the eerie glow of the gemstone.  
  
“And this?” The necklace was clearly enchanted.  
  
“It has an absorption spell,” he drawled as he fiddled with the amulet. “Knowing your penchant for trouble, it will by far be more useful to you than sold to a merchant.”  
  
He then raised his chin and looked contemplatively at the buried dome.  
  
“Sometimes he would perch on the top of the ceiling to observe the liturgy,” he reminisced in a low murmur, “and then he would grace the High Priest with one favour.”  
  
“Just one? What a skinflint.”  
  
He chuckled at her grimace, but then added with a strange inflection, “So you believe yourself to be fairer? Would you truly bestow more favours?”  
  
What a strange question—too easy to answer nonetheless.  
  
“Of course!” she snorted. “I am, by far, more caring and merciful than him.”  
“Are you indeed?” A note of derision crept from his words.  
“Then tell me, dragon of the north.” His voice dropped down to a strange, mellow quality.  
“Would you pardon the wretch, if he begged for forgiveness on his knees?” He grabbed her upper arms tightly, drawing all of her attention to the slits of his mask.  
“Or sooth the ill-fated, if he crawled for your blessing?” The mask slightly pressed on her forehead, as if stressing the growl that rose from his smooth tone.  
“Would you reward the devoted, if he grovelled at your feet?” And the metal caressed her cheek, as she remained still in her shock.  
  
The ruthlessness of the World Eater—it went beyond her more morbid imaginings.  
She could picture them, pinned under his glittering red eyes, and hear their cries for mercy while he burnt them alive. And the priests all knelt around him, not even daring to raise their heads to watch the scene.  
  
She could see why Miraak mastered the art of speech. Only through veiled prompts and artful ambiguity could he tear away some morsels of power, and preserve his pride from the worst of it. It was no wonder, then, that he had swiftly risen through the ranks to reach the top. Even if they demanded complete servitude, in the end, dragons did not value those that humiliated themselves.  
  
“Only someone soulless would not,” she managed to utter, still digesting the notion.  
“And you are a devourer of souls.” A hiss resounded next to her ear. “That wretch would become nothing but your thrall.”  
“What are you saying,” she whispered, dismayed. “That I could be worse than Alduin?”  
“You are.”  
  
She removed his mask and slightly gasped. There was no trace of jest in his intense gaze. How could he talk to her with such carelessness? What was he implying, that power was going to corrupt her in the end? Then he didn't know her, at all!  
  
“You are wrong!” she sputtered vehemently. “I am not like that.” She would never forget her humble origins, or stop protecting her own lot. “I never will be!” And she tried to stand up, to distance herself by slipping from the stone block, but he stopped her, holding her waist and pushing her back into a sitting position.  
“Don't fret, you won't be.” She could catch a bittersweet humour dancing in his eyes as he cupped her cheek. “I will not allow it.” An odd edge of challenge sharpened that whispered assertion, but she could not mull over it, too distracted by the odd tenderness of his unexpected kiss. The softness of that lingering peck did not last, though, as his dominant nature slithered in to devour her mouth, and the grip buried in her messy hair tightened. And then she felt it, a pull in her sash, and fingers working to free the knots from the laces.  
Her eyes widened as she parted from his lips to regain some breath.  
  
“Here?” Her wonderment came out faint, and not just for lack of air.  
  
“And why not?” he questioned in a husky, tantalizing tone. There was no doubt in the lust flickering behind his calculating eyes, and she couldn't suppress a blush, regardless of their familiarity.  
  
Participating in an act of passion in his altar was just outrageous. Perverse. A warped means of petty injury to a despised, deceased tyrant. Nonetheless, contemplating the very idea of doing it sent a jolt of thrill that startled her. She dampened her reddened lips. The Dovahkiin shamelessly desecrating his shrine. The very thought sent shivers through her spine. The ultimate act of scorn.  
  
She hurled her hands around his hair and pressed his lips to hers with renewed vigour, gaining a surprised, but pleased grunt. He quickly unfastened the last lace of her robe, and threw away his gloves.  
  
His large palms roamed over her exposed chest, caressing her hips, fondling her breasts, and she clasped her thighs around his waist, grinding against his belt, while he smothered her collarbone with scorching kisses.  
She arched back, parted lips and closed eyes, to relish in the sensation, even if she knew the true reason behind his uncharacteristic show of unrestrained ardour. He was just distracting her, making sure that she would not back off from his brazen proposal.  
  
She could not help but wonder, while she tried to deal with the hidden, intricate fastenings of his robe, if that was one of his long-harboured, dark fantasies, or if this was just spur of the moment. The thought vanished, however, just like a puff of smoke, when he teasingly bit her neck. She unwarily sank her nails into his bare chest, a moan leaving her throat. He hissed, but was gracious enough to not retaliate with a harsher bite, so she guiltily caressed his torso, soothing the reddened long gashes, half-concealed by his down, and kissed his Adam's apple as her hands slid to his abdomen, toward his hardness. He grabbed her wrists, though, and rested her palms on the stone behind her back.  
  
“ _Nid_. Not this time, little _dov_ ,” he murmured in that low, guttural voice he knew would make her compliant. She remained tight-lipped in frustration, and watched intently, through half-lidded eyes, how he descended to kneel between her spread legs, and linger over her sex, tickling her arousal with his warm breath.  
  
The way his tongue flickered and dove between her swollen lips was excruciating, and she laid back on the white marble, writhing and whimpering without restraint under the disquieting shadow of Alduin's wide jaws. He temporarily alleviated her hunger by thrusting with one of his large fingers.  
  
“You know what I expect.” His smooth, low tone was resolute, earning an annoyed whine. There was always payback for his lavished dedication.  
“Please, Miraak.” She should have known better, than giving him free rein. “Don't be... mean.”  
“Say it.” He slowed the motions of his fingers and purposely lapped around, just away from her burning spot. She bit her lip in frustration, instinctively bucking her hips against his lips. Always the same extortion.  
“Please...” she gasped, when he slightly nibbled her inner thigh to stress his point.  
“Say it.” He wasn't going to budge, as usual.  
“I...” And he flicked the tip of his tongue just once on her little, hidden swelling, to spur her on.  
“I am yours...” She gritted her teeth—such a bastard. Simple begging wasn't enough for him anymore. She could feel his buried lips curve into a satisfied smirk.  
“Go on,” he growled hoarsely, already gloating over her next words.  
“... and I need you,” she whispered croakily, capitulating to his demand.  
“Good.” He arose and pushed her thighs wide apart, lifting her knees so that her calves rested over his shoulders in his preferred position, the one that gave him complete mastery over movement, but nonetheless let him watch the swaying of her breasts, the way his thickness shoved inside her tight slit, and how she completely unravelled. The tip of his cock teasingly parted her entrance and she shivered.  
  
“Will this ever assuage you, _Ysmir_?” he grunted softly, like he was questioning himself, and he sank deeper, savouring how her warm, drenched walls slid snugly around him.  
  
A low hum escaped from his throat and his thrusts took a steady rhythm, too slow for her liking. She had complied with his request and she was beyond flustered. She was entitled to get her needs satisfied!  
“I want you harder! Harder!” she ordered and abruptly pushed back her hips, but he kept her still with a forceful grip around her thighs.  
“Be quiet!” he reprimanded in a strangled hiss, slowing his pace even more.  
She whined, annoyed, observing the tenseness of his jaw. He and his insufferable, overbearing nature, doing that just to mess further with her. But she always obtained what she wanted, she thought maliciously, in one way or another. So she bit her finger coyly and threw a sideways glance at him, arching her neck invitingly.  
“It’s not my fault that you feel so good!” A flicker of undiluted lust escaped from his intent gaze and he sank harder. She licked her lips, internally sniggering. It was working as expected.  
“Oh yes!” she went on sultrily, a wicked glee dancing in her eyes.  
“Like that...” His strained groan and the jolt of his thrusts uninhibited her more.  
“ _Geh_ ,” she moaned, “fill your _mal dov_ as the _Kriis Sonaak_ is bound to do!”  
“ _Vik_!” he hissed through clenched teeth, and swiftly slipped out of her, as if burnt.  
And then he suddenly rolled her over, belly flat against the altar, a hand buried in her hair, while the other pressed on her back.  
  
She heard his deep, hoarse breaths, but said nothing, resting her cheek on the cold white surface and waiting. She liked that position a bit too much for him to ever know, so she just closed her eyes and gripped the edge of the marble, shuddering at the craved sensation of being overfilled by a thick, throbbing heat.  
She arched her back and pushed back a bit, earning only a tighter grip in her hair, which aggravated her frown. Damn, why was he keeping such a slow pace? By now he would usually let himself go, making her feel wonderful! She was going to complain that it was getting frustrating, and she wanted it deeper and harder like always, when a hand covered her mouth and one arm encircled her waist. She felt his palm press on her mound and warm fingers slid around her aching clit.  
  
The slow friction of his cock and the teasing of his fingertips were too much for her quivering thighs, and she moaned, pleasure shaking her core and spreading fast, overwhelming, through her whole shivering body, but it was not the same intense and shattering flight that she usually got from the far spot his fierce pounding reached every time.  
  
She felt him quickly slip out from her and heard a stifled groan. He was hunched against the corner of the altar, a fist tightened on the marble and a hand holding his spent member. His seed was spilt on the floor.  
  
It did not take a genius to understand what he had done.  
  
They did not comment on what happened as they gathered some treasures, and she did not try to chat him up to break the silence like she used to when he enfolded her in a brown heavy fur cloak he found to cover her light robe.  
  
Even if she understood the reason, she could not shake away that prickling sensation of feeling unsatisfied and a bit resentful.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon language:
> 
> Ysmir = Dragon of the North. A title of the Dragonborn.  
> Mal dov = little dragon  
> Kriis sonaak = high priest  
> Vik = damn


	10. Whirlwind

**10\. (Wuld)**   
  
  
**\- Loredas, 17th of Mid-Year -**

  
She refused to let that off-key note ruin the enjoyment of her recovered freedom, so she curbed that stinging, lingering pang, diverting her attention to the stark, but nonetheless breathtaking landscape of Solstheim until they reached the little Dunmer settlement in the afternoon. She chatted the time away with every merchant in Raven Rock, forgetting Miraak's quiet presence as he silently looked around. Her feeble excuse was that she had to butter them up first to sell the goods, even though they both knew that, in the end, it would be his silver tongue raising the final price of every barter.  
  
It was weird how the citizens of Raven Rock did not recognize his voice anymore, even though he had spoken to many of them. Fethis Alor, however, could not suppress an unintentional flinch after hearing his succinct overture. He was, after all, one of the few that suffered the most from months of mind control and lack of sleep, and was but a few steps away from unwillingly joining his little crazy cult.  
  
She, on the other hand, could not shut up even for a moment, and wasted most of her time talking about inanities with the blacksmith as he tempered some armours. It was so gratifying to banter again with that old fox of Mallory, especially when he was one of the few that still remembered her, and how could he not? Many coins had flowed into his pockets thanks to her purchases.  
His company didn't deter her, though, from pestering the Redoran guards on station, monopolizing Captain Veleth's attention for half an hour, or engaging Adril Arano in small talk when he walked by.  
She completely disregarded the fact that Miraak had long stopped walking close to her, ever since his brief interaction with Milore Ienth, the local alchemist, and was now standing, arms crossed, in a shadowed corner, following her antics from a distance.  
  
“So, did we get enough?” she asked, sliding her arms around his neck in a soothing way.  
He nodded stiffly, seated in front of a desk with a small mountain of scattered coins.  
She had to bury her head on his shoulder to stifle a giggle. Miraak was still bristling at the gold Geldis Sadri—that ‘shameless gouger,’ as he kept calling him the whole evening—had the audacity to ask for just a dinner and a room.  
  
“It is no laughing matter!” he hissed, quite ruffled. He had not calculated the cost of living to be so obscenely high in comparison to his time. She thought it wise to omit the fact that Geldis's prices weren't expensive at all, but rather quite cheap in comparison to other inns in Skyrim. The coins jingled against the wood when his fist abruptly slammed on the table.  
  
“If I knew, I would have bartered to reach much higher prices!”  
  
So that was the reason he had scowled for the whole meal instead of relishing in all those bizarre Dunmer dishes, like she did with unladylike voracity. She learnt much later, when he was in a better mood and only by casual reminiscence, that his taste buds had been burning after he had nipped at some horker meat floating in the yam stew, and it had become worse when he erroneously drank some Sujamma to wash away the sting. He had always disliked spicy flavours.  
  
“You could have warned me,” he added reproachfully, and she rolled her eyes, waltzing toward the bed and unceremoniously throwing herself on it.  
  
“You've always bragged about your haggling skills—how could I guess? So you miscalculated a bit. Well, it happens. Deal with it and come to sleep.”  
  
He sighed wearily, unable to conceal how that mistake was searing his pride. He was obviously not used to the physical strain caused by the limitations of this plane. It was strange to reason in terms of dimensions, like Daedra did, but it was unavoidable after her experience.  
  
“You may, but I have to prepare a ledger, first.”  
“Ledger? Are you kidding?”  
“Sensible individuals, unlike certain redheads, keep tabulations of their daily expenses.”  
  
She let out an exasperated groan as she tucked herself under the pelts. “Divines, you really are a control freak.”  
  
She plunged her face deeper in the pelts, one eye still staring at the tremulous shadows Miraak's Magelight projected on the wall. The rhythmic scratch of his quill should have slowly lulled her into slumber, but after so many years of living in stasis, too much had happened in just a single day.  
  
Her mind was reeling. It couldn't stop replaying, like it was stuck in a loop, what had happened in the temple. That obscure feeling of distress resurged back even stronger.  
  
The Magelight faded away and the room suddenly fell into deep darkness.  
  
She heard some rustling, followed by the sinking of the mattress behind her back, and she clutched tighter to the pelt, waiting with some trepidation for his expected approach.  
  
Minutes ticked away and she frowned.  
  
Not an arm around her waist, not even a little touch.  
  
She turned toward him, even if she could see nothing, and nibbled her lip.  
  
Perhaps he was just really tired and she should not infer anything from it.  
  
Or maybe he thought she was already asleep.  
  
She snuggled a bit and delicately pressed her nose behind his earlobe. She smirked at hearing the slight irregularity of his breathing. He was clearly awake, so she proceeded to tease him with a trail of swift pecks down his rough jawline until she found the softness of his lips and locked them in a sensual, wet kiss. All of her silly worries evaporated as he responded with equal fervour to her advances, pressing his hands around her nape and waist—until he abruptly held her hands, stopping their further wandering beneath the hem of his shirt.  
  
“Not tonight.”  
  
His voice carried the same strange stiffness it had in the temple, and she could still perceive some concealed tension from the slight tightening of his hold. Her presentiment tingled more strongly. That did not bode well at all.  
  
“Why?”  
  
Her hoarse whisper shouldn't have sounded so tremulous. It took him some time to answer, like he was pondering what the best answer was.  
  
“I am weary.”  
  
The candour of his admission was baffling, knowing his ridiculous pride. Nonetheless, she preferred to glide over that detail, as the admission calmed her nagging misgivings. So instead of being dissuaded, she straddled him and bent to murmur sultrily next to his ear.  
  
“Then relax and let me take care of you the way you like the most.”  
  
The eagerness to carry on with her promise must have sounded quite lascivious, because the strength in his hold suddenly slackened and she was able to slip her hands away, to free his chest from the constraints of his robe, so that one hand could slip under his loosened belt and stroke his hardness. She teasingly bit the crook of his neck, earning a long groan, and smiled. He was already aroused like she wanted.  
  
“Enough.”  
  
He suddenly sat, forcing her to clumsily fall back on the other side of the bed. A little ball of Magelight fluctuated again at the foot of the bed and he swiftly fastened his robe.  
  
“Not now. Not that way.”  
  
After hearing that terse hiss, she wasn't able to stop her distress from showing in her shocked stare. Her bold initiatives weren't, after all, a common occurrence, and not even the tiniest possibility of a refusal had ever formed in her mind. A glint of guilt flashed in his gaze before he turned away and sat on the edge of the bed, hardening his expression.  
  
“I would not be able to... restrain myself in time.”  
  
The justification of his refusal was even worse than being at the receiving end of one of his unexplained, cold silences, and a sudden want to weep snapped at her, piercing her like a bear trap. She managed, however, to keep the fort from collapsing, and only a strangled, raspy hiss escaped from her drawn jaw.  
  
“Is it so appalling, then? The chance of getting me pregnant?”  
  
Many undecipherable emotions crossed his face, but rage predominated as he stood up and shouted in a rare surge of pure, unconstrained hatred.  
  
“I am done being Hermaeus Mora's pawn!”  
  
He did not give her any chance to question what he meant, but walked away from the room, slamming the door.  
  
 She did not close an eye for the remainder of the night. It was worse than she suspected.

 

  
**\- Sundas, 18th of Mid-Year -**  
  
The next morning the coward was nowhere to be seen. He had not returned to their room, nor was he seated near Geldis Sadri's counter. Her belly grumbled and she internally groaned. Well, it was not the first time she’d been forced to skip a meal. She was going to leave the inn, even more disheartened, when the Dunmer called her back.  
  
“Hey, stop! Your companion already paid for your breakfast, so pick something before leaving.”  
“Ah, sure. And what do you suggest?”  
“Well, we always have the speciality of the house.”  
  
She sat on the far corner and munched another piece of Yam bread, brooding.  
Paying for her meal was supposed to be a considerate gesture on his part, perhaps even an underhanded way to mollify her, but if that was his intention, it was backfiring. She was getting more and more irked by the second.  
She gritted her teeth, not having gold to even pay for a measly breakfast. How the mighty had fallen! It suddenly put into perspective how much she had debased herself into depending so much on his unreliable, passing fancies.  
She drank a sip of Sujamma to calm her turmoil and unclasped Miraak's amulet from her neck.  
She inspected it for some minutes, looking pensively at how it shined, and then clutched it tightly. How mushy of her—she did not have the heart to sell it for some easy coin. After all, she rationalized, it would have been no different from taking more of his gold. It would be her last resort, then. She slipped it away in her pocket, and walked toward Geldis Sadri.  
  
“I'm looking for a job. Have you heard any rumours, by chance?”  
“Well, aren't you a lucky Breton,” he exclaimed with a crooked smirk. “Do you see this?” He put a bottle of unlabelled content on the counter.  
“This is 'Sadri's Sujamma,' best drink in all of Solstheim,” he boasted. “All I need now is for lots of boozers to flock in here for it. And that's how you, young lady, come into play.” He raised his eyebrows in a meaningful way. “Five hundred gold. Deal?”  
Not a minute later, she was outside the inn, looking around like a hawk. Her arms were full of little samples jingling inside a cute wicker basket.  
  
Gaining those coins from Sadri was getting too easy, she mused, like accidentally killing an innocent chicken. She just had to throw a smile and a wave toward the potential customer, and then shake the bottle in front of his face with some honeyed words attached. In less than three hours she had distributed almost all of the samples, No one was stupid enough to refuse a free alcoholic beverage, not even the group of soldiers off-duty for the day. To think that Geldis told her they could be troublesome.  
  
She proudly waltzed toward the blacksmithing, intending to reel in the poor, unsuspecting Mallory, when a strong grip on her wrist pulled her into one of the narrow passages between some cabins.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
It was Miraak. From the clipped way he worded his question, she understood that his nerves were more frayed than yesterday.  
  
So, she revelled maliciously, in addition to not sleeping, he had already tasted the dubious pleasure of dealing with the captain of the North Maiden. No amount of persuasion worked with Gjalund Salt-Sage, ever. Two hundred-fifty gold was the fee and two hundred-fifty gold he would get, each bloody time. He would not move his rattletrap for a single coin less.  
  
She scoffed, looked at him from head to toe with exaggerated scorn, and then threw him her haughtiest melodramatic look.  
  
“And so he finally deigns to reappear. Isn't it obvious, genius? I am completing a task.”  
  
He visibly tensed at her utter lack of common courtesy and folded his arms. Well, after how he treated her last night, she couldn't care less about his susceptible pride. She was certainly not going to offer him a shoulder to cry on.  
  
“This is beneath you, Dragonborn,” he retorted with clear disdain. “You do not need to complete such menial tasks.” He artfully avoided addressing the real issue, blatantly ignoring her theatrics. How cowardly. “I have obtained more than enough gold for any of your purchases.” The forced smoothness gradually vanished under a growing amount of reproach.  
  
She bristled at the implication. If he was thinking to generously bestow upon her some kind of monthly allowance, like some pampered little brat, he had it completely wrong, by miles.  
  
“Well, I like it, so I will do it all the same!” she answered, even more peeved. She had some pride, too, for Azura, and she would not run to him and snivel to get any shiny bauble, like he surely hoped. What a bastard—as if he wasn't overbearing enough.  
  
“I see.” His voice suddenly flattened, devoid of any emotion. “And where is your coat?”  
“Over the bed.” She scowled, puzzled. That was completely unrelated. “Why?”  
“Go back and put it on.” His terseness was assertive enough to rile her further.  
“Are you nuts? It’s too warm today!” For Julianos, the coat was made of furs!  
“That is irrelevant,” he suddenly hissed. “You will not fool around anymore, not in such inappropriate attire.” She gaped at him, nonplussed. What? “Your point is valid, nonetheless,” he added, sounding slightly appeased, and then went on, suspiciously more amiable, gently grabbing her hand. “Come, I will buy you something more proper.”  
  
Now she was seeing red. This went beyond mere clothing. Who in Oblivion did he think he was, to dismiss her and then merrily come back, ordering her around like some common, dullard follower? She was the bloody Dragonborn! The Dragonborn! And she could do whatever she wanted whenever she pleased, even bounce around in jester’s clothes, shouting lame rhymes in the name of Sheogorath, and it would still be none of his damn business!  
  
She stomped her feet and freed her hand with an abrupt jerk.  
  
“Inappropriate?” she shouted. “Only my arms are bare, you prude idiot! The hem even reaches my heels!” She instinctively defended her choice, uncaring of the tiny issue that the accursed dragon priest robe had been picked by Miraak himself. It was a matter of principle—she had to antagonize him.  
  
“Don't be difficult.” He stressed each word with a calm that was obviously fake. “You are not wearing anything under that vest.”  
“And only you know that,” she muttered with some chagrin, but it was immediately smothered by more anger. “Nobody is the wiser!”  
  
She shouldn't even waste her time justifying herself. The very fact it was occurring was proof enough of how low she had sunk. Just the thought made her blood boil even more.  
  
“That's what you believe,” he hissed through clenched teeth, suddenly grabbing her shoulders and pushing her back against the wall. “How have you completed your task in such a brief time?”  
“Don't be ridiculous! Alcohol sells faster than sweetrolls.”  
“Yes. That's why you shamelessly sway your hips while offering drinks.”  
“What?” This was getting more outrageous by the second. Resorting to underhanded, cheap shots just to win an argument. He wouldn't get his way, that was for sure now.  
“I was just being charming! To saddle them with the wares!”  
“You stupid girl!” he spat hoarsely. “Flaunting your curves in front of stranded guards! Are you seeking trouble?”  
Guards? Her expression contorted in genuine rage. She had given the samples to those soldiers like hours ago.  
“So first you dump me and then spy on me like a creep!” she shrilled, furious. “Where the hell were you last night?” There, she said it. She wanted to add 'with a hard-on,' but she feared a specific answer. “Tell me!”  
  
“Ah, now I see,” he hissed, his voice dropping to an ugly parody of his usual suave tone. “This is your way to spite me.” His grip tightened over her shoulders, like two sharp claws. “Prancing around like a little tart.” That unexpected crude insult froze her on the spot. “Or were you enticing them into sharing your wares in a secluded corner?” he rasped venomously, and then mocked with pure malice, “Good choice. Dunmer are certainly voracious and endowed enough to sate all of your unquenchable needs.”  
  
She had Shouted at him, thrown fire bolts at him, and once, after a spar, when she had been really peeved, even tried to centre his smug, laughing face with one of her slippers. It was the first time, though, that she had ever slapped at him with unconstrained, pure hatred. Her palm clashed with such force against the side of his face that the mask flew away, clanking against the nearby wall, and then skittered in the mud few feet away from them.  
  
Her hand stung from the clash against pure metal, but it felt just like the prick of a small pin in comparison to the growing burning around her moistening eyes. She quickly brushed them to sweep away any traitorous leakage, and gnashed ferociously, like a pierced beast. He had crossed the line.  
  
“You are a sick, disgusting, lecherous old man. Don't ever forget that!” she roared, with even more spite. He did not turn his bent chin to look at her, but schooled his rage behind a mask of impassivity, and that spurred her on, increasing her urge to burn him to a little crisp.  
  
“You miserable failure,” she blew, each word even more scorching. “Just thinking about what I let you do to me, to survive in that hell!” But it was not enough, so she bit down, hard.  
“You are the worst affliction Peryite could have ever cursed me with!”  
And then the final snap.  
“You really make me sick.”  
She left him there, standing still in the shadowed corner.  
  
He did not step into the inn that night, nor was he seen anywhere in Raven Rock. Now that she had plenty of time to cool off, and had imbibed a good dose of Sadri's Sujamma, she was starting to faintly regret her razor-sharp words, as she continued to stare at the inn's closed door.  
  
  
  
  
 **\- Tirdas, 20th of Mid-Year -**  
  
Despite being crammed in that ship for a whole day, they had not spared a single glance to each other. Only at one point had they seemed to tacitly agree to avoid each other like the plague. Miraak had cloistered himself inside the main ship cabin, while she stood outside, on the opposite edge of the ship, throwing up even her soul from sea sickness.  
  
The term 'horrible' was not strong enough to describe a journey that seemed endless.  
She had really been tempted to just skip the passage and wait for the next shipment, but then it could have been interpreted as a show of weakness. Why should she be the one fleeing with her tail down when he was the one that should crawl back, asking for her forgiveness? Then there was also the fact that her passage had already been paid for, and she was not swimming in gold.  
  
She silently grumbled, sitting inside Candlehearth Hall, a nail lazily grating on the wood of the table, instead of finishing her cooled supper. Geldis' gold was enough to buy some decent gauntlets, but to clear an average tomb she needed—at least—a complete armour set. It meant she would be forced to work at a mill, and she disliked chopping wood or harvesting for hours. She always ended suffering backaches, like an old, feeble granny.  
  
As if her grim thoughts weren't bitter enough, a familiar shape walked up the stairs, making her completely lose what little remained of her mild appetite.  
  
Her gaze accidentally crossed with the slits of his mask for an instant, but it was enough to incense her with renewed intensity. She bent her face in the opposite direction and silently seethed, her chin held up by one of her clenched fists. What the hell was he doing there? Couldn't he go to the Grey Quarter and disappear from her sight? She snorted. Of course not, that place wasn't posh enough for his sensitive and refined tastes.  
  
Nonetheless she couldn't stop from throwing quick peeks from the corner of the eye, observing from a far distance how he strutted with nonchalance and stopped to ask something from the maid, as if he had not seen her sitting there a minute ago. She bristled indignantly. So the cocky bastard was not perturbed at all. And then she heard Susanna's laugh ring in the room.  
  
She managed to maintain her composure, avoiding a grimace of displeasure, and threw another long glance, immediately noticing how he was slightly bent toward the woman, and how the maid smiled at something witty he must have said.  
  
So the wretch thought it opportune to shamelessly flirt with Susanna the Wicked.  
  
She pursed her lips to stifle an unladylike snarl.  
  
Susanna's reputation preceded her, even in the other Holds. She was infamous as the beautiful and busty Windhelm wench that shamelessly egged all the male foreigners on, only to dump them all when they thought they had finally won her favours. Some say she had become so ruthless after being ditched by a Chorrol captain in front of Mara's altar.  
No matter the cause, that woman carried with pride the title of 'The Wicked' for obvious reasons. She would have just sat back, belly full of mead, savouring with gusto the pitiful spectacle of Miraak failing at courtship and getting his male ego heartlessly tramped in the process—if she did not know the true extent of his manipulative speech.  
She could imagine the congenial smirk he was wearing behind his mask, while he masterfully threaded his webbed trap around the poor, unsuspecting wench, using that hypnotic, deep cadence of his.  
  
Her fiery rage abruptly waned, leaving in its place a reforged, sharp-as-steel determination, the very same that possessed her during one-on-one battles. So that's how it was, parading in front of her face how easily he could move on. How despicable. He was surely doing it on purpose, in order to add insult to injury.  
Well then, she was not obliged to watch further, nor stand his wretched presence anymore.  
He seemed to be completely distracted, and that was good. She was not one to be trifled with, but she would not cause some scene. She would slip away unnoticed—she had too much dignity to give him any proof of how effective his mockery was.  
  
She silently descended the stairs, feigning to go to the counter to order something else, and then exited the inn. She marched quickly, almost running when she approached Windhelm’s main gates, and stopped in front of the stables. She had traitorously clung, until the end, to a faint, stupid hope that he would suddenly see reason and make his amends. She really was an idiot. It was stupid to expect any better from someone like him. It was time to chop the last thread, and start anew.  
  
“I need a ride, now.”  
  
Her sudden, loud request abruptly woke the carriage driver from his little slumber.  
“For Mara, don't scare me so! And to where?”  
  
She gave him his twenty coins and jumped in the back seat.  
There were no doubts, the right choice was the most improbable and farthest one.  
  
“Riften.”


	11. Fury

11.  
(Nah)  
  
\- Turdas, 22th of Mid-Year -  
  
Nobody noticed a plain little Breton sneaking off from the side door of the temple and mingling again with the market crowd. Nothing about her was remarkable, after all—not her young features nor her armour. The only distinguishable trait that could have caught some eyes was well-braided and covered by a paltry fur helmet too big to be carried by such tiny head.  
  
She walked aimlessly through the streets with her chin tilted down, lost in thought. She would have been a tempting target for any pickpocketer, if not for the obvious air of misery that surrounded her slow gait. They said even the Thief Guild had some standards, and when she tripped on an unseen obstacle, and her knees fell in the unexpected sludge of disgusting self-commiseration, she even considered the mad idea of joining their ranks.  
  
She rose again, and slightly flinched when Miraak's amulet, buried in her side pocket, briefly pressed against her thigh, reminding her of its presence. Its cumbersome weight increased the more she tried to forget it, bumping against her side at every step. Soon the need to get rid of it became irrepressible when, like a burning coal, it started to wear down the already threadbare lining of her nerves. She sold it to an Argonian jeweller she met in the market, and went straight to the blacksmith's shop.  
  
The owner, a Nord called Balimund, seemed to be quite the nice fellow, despite his rough, battle-scarred exterior. When he came to know about her current gold shortage, he even offered to buy some fire salts from her if she ever found some during her travels.  
  
After much pondering and some quick napkin calculations, she opted to buy the cheapest armour, a simple fur set, in order to get two Dwemer-quality swords. She was used to wearing so much better, but for her current purposes it was more than fine. She planned to explore some nearby caves for some easy treasure hunting; she would just rely on the speed of her offensive combat style and the power of her Thu'um to kill all the wild beasts she was surely going to encounter.  
  
It was strange how nobody noticed her as she passed, how she could stroll around without feeling a scorching gaze lingering on her back, following all of her movements.  
  
It was unsettling not being the centre of any attention.  
  
The familiar knot in the stomach intensified and she mentally scolded herself for her unacceptable lack of spine. That slight nausea had not left her throughout the entire journey. It was not receding like she hoped, and to her growing frustration, none of the god's blessings were having any positive effect.  
  
At first she knelt in front of Mara's shrine to get some restoration from her sickness, but upon noticing that nothing seemed to change, she tried to gain some fortitude through Arkay's benevolence. It didn’t work either, and that put a dent in her plan. Only a fool would venture into the wild without a calm mind and full physical strength.  
So she resorted to waiting, and sat slumped in a secluded corner of The Bee and Barb. Sooner or later it had to go away, right?  
  
It had started innocently enough, with little sips of that famous Black Briar mead Lydia had always told her to never drink—ever. Her nagging, no nonsense, familiar voice floated into her mind. The Dragonborn had to always be at the top of her form, be ready for any fight, and flawlessly carry out her duty. And, of course, that beverage was too strong for her little physique, so it was out of the question.  
Nonetheless, the Argonian bartender, Talen-Jey, told her in clear, rude terms, that she could not slack off there, warming the chair, without spending any coin. Considering that she was in the very city that produced the best mead, and her lack of appetite, she ordered a pint just to indulge her sorry self for once.  
  
She was supposed to stop at one, like the good, responsible bore she had to be, but then she noticed it was making her feel livelier. As she had suspected, Lydia, like a typical, overprotective Nord, had just been coddling her.  
“Another, Talen-Jey!” she cried, waving her palm in the air. She was a seasoned warrior and the ultimate dragon slayer. Surely she could handle some more Skyrim alcohol with little problem!  
  
After the third drink, however, that unbearable, sickening disorientation, the same one that had stalked the back of her mind for the whole morning, assaulted her senses with renewed ruthlessness. She drained a third pint of Black Briar in hopes of intensifying the pleasurable intoxication and returning to the previously soothing numbness.  
  
It did not seem enough, though, so this time she asked for the whole bottle. However, no matter how much more she drank, it still couldn't sweep away the horrible whirlwind of confused memories. It made her mind spin like a crazy whirligig.  
She hit the mug on the table, spilling some mead, and whined, exasperated. What in Oblivion was happening to her? She was behaving like a bloody wimp!  
  
It was only a matter of time, she consoled herself as she refilled the mug again.  
It was just loss of familiarity, an abrupt change of environment!  
New people, no familiar faces, a sudden loss of assurances...  
Nothing new, been there, tackled that before, like her first weeks in Whiterun.  
She would soon return to the same strong, independent, carefree woman she had been before putting foot in Solstheim.  
Yes, she thought as she lifted the mug to her lips, she only had to stay far away from that cursed wretch and erase her memories of everything that had happened before then.  
Everything.  
  
One of her elbows pushed the empty mug to the floor.  
  
Yes, yes. That was the best solution. It had never happened.  
  
She lifted the bottle and drank another sip directly from its neck.  
How she hated him. He had reduced her to a shadow of her previous self!  
How she despised herself... How could she let him reduce her to such disgraceful state?  
But she would retain the lesson, oh yes. She set the bottle down with a bang, gaining the attention of some irked costumers. Avoid men at any cost! They were only a source of trouble and not worth it! She would slay them all if required! None of them would ever have a chance to even blink at her, ever!  
Oh yes, now she was herself again.  
  
It was then, when she raised her arm to ask for a new mug, that she overheard an interesting conversation going on near the counter. She had been too distracted by her misery to notice the unnatural amount of frightened people trembling in front of the entrance.  
  
“That's a joke, right?”  
  
It was the innkeeper, talking to an off-duty courier, or so she deduced from his type of pouch.  
“If only I was. Three cities have already been attacked since yesterday.”  
“No!” The Argonian gasped, covering her mouth. “But that's terrifying! Which ones?”  
“Solitude, Markarth, and Falkreath.”  
“For Mara and Dibella! Why don't they just leave us be?”  
“Who knows what those beasts want.”  
  
She rolled her eyes and groaned. She had disappeared for only a few years and the dragons were already out of control? An unrefined burp left her mouth. To think that Paarthurnax had assured her they would all have been converted to the Way of the Voice by then. Yeah, sure. She grabbed her sword and wobbled out of the door. She couldn't even mope in peace anymore.  
  
And there it was, the blurry silhouette of a dovah perched on a roof frying some guards. She sighed and tried to focus on its form, squeezing her eyes to little slits. No, she concluded, she really wasn't feeling quite well enough to deal with it alone, so she raised her chin to the skies and shouted with all the power in her lungs.  
  
“ODAHVIING!”  
  
Seconds ticked by as she waited, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Would Odahviing still answer her call?  
  
A proud roar pierced the skies and her chest swelled in joy when red majestic wings shone under the sun.  
  
“Dovahkiin! Ahst laat hi rein!” The dragon's rumble shook the ground, and terrorised, high-pitched screams rose around her, but she just stood there with a goofy grin plastered in her face. “Veyn lost hi kosaan?”  
  
She clumsily waved her arms in the air and shouted back, stifling a gleeful laugh. “Sorry! No time to explain, I need your help first!” She pointed at the ancient dragon soaring over their heads, but Odahviing kept staring at her, with what seemed to be a dumbfounded expression.  
  
“Krosis, did you really understand my rot?”  
“Of course,” she frowned, “is that so weird?”  
  
The red dragon puffed out what seemed the equivalent of a snigger, and then regained altitude.  
  
“Knowing your fangs, geh, kung. Yol-Toor-Shul!”  
  
The two dov engaged in a deadly flight. She blinked, bemused, until his comment finally hit home. The brass of that dragon! She snorted. Odahviing had not changed a scale. Nonetheless, he was still following their tested strategy flawlessly, forcing the other dovah into flying far from the centre of Riften and beyond the city walls so that she could shout Dragonrend in a safe place.  
She skittered out of the city, never letting the shape of the two dragons out of her sight, ready to shout again, when an unexpected, powerful gush of wind hit her back, pushing her forward with unstoppable force. All of the air she saved for Dragonrend left her lungs, and her body crashed far away, rolling on the grassy ground.  
  
A hoarse growl reached her ears from afar.  
  
“Did you truly think you could be rid of me so easily?”  
  
Her glossy eyes widened in apprehension, a burst of foreboding tightly clamping her stomach, and she quickly tried to stand up without stumbling. She did not need to detail the unfocused, blue-ish form to know who was fast approaching her.  
And then her mind did something incredible, given its numbness. Dragon, Miraak, attacks. It made the connection.  
  
“You!” she blurted out, rudely pointing an accusing finger, “You attacked the cities!” Her dumbfounded dismay rang too clearly from her loud cry, much more than she wanted.  
  
“Why?” she went on. “Why did you do that? You put lots of people in danger!”  
The moment her word left her mouth, she mentally cringed. Instead of sounding righteously accusing, it was simple-minded and shrilly, and that didn't help her tough façade.  
Far from being unsettled, Miraak merely snorted and stood proudly erect, arms folded, not even trying to deny the charges.  
  
“It was the fastest way to lure a certain little heroine out.” He purposely spat out the last words like they were dirt, and a renewed surge of dread overcame her. He knew very well that her home was in Whiterun. She had always been blabbering little anecdotes about Dragonsreach and its people during their time in Apocrypha. It was the main reason she chose to stay far away from the place. It was too predictable and risky.  
  
“If you dared attack Whiterun...!” she managed to choke out, unable to curb her anxiety.  
  
“I did not waste my time there.” The unrestrained hatred in Miraak's scorn was worrisome. “Scuttling to one of the farthest holds like a little rat. How weak-minded and predictable.”  
Even more unsettling, was the fact that he did not care to conceal his barely contained rage, nor did he seem to have any qualms about victimizing others in his rampage.  
  
“But we have a matter to settle, you and I,” he added menacingly.  
  
She couldn't deal properly with him, though, not with the butterflies in her head and the nagging worry that an ancient dragon was still threatening the city. There was an orphanage nearby, for Mara's sake! To Sithis with him and his sense of timing.  
  
A sudden dizziness overtook her, so she rested on the nearest outer wall, pulling off her most cheeky pose to conceal it.  
  
“And now you found me, so make him stop,” she drawled, flaunting her lack of tension as if it was truly premeditated, thus sounding incredibly insolent and sure of herself. It was a handy trick she often used when she was losing too much blood, in order to mislead the enemy.  
  
“Very well.” he conceded smoothly, but from his stiff, straight stance he was clearly peeved by her act.  
  
“Viinthuruth, zii los di du.”  
  
He just stood there, impassive, as golden flames flowed into him. Her face blanched.  
  
“Why that look?” he viciously taunted, gloating at her unconcealed reaction. “Wasn't that what you asked for, Dragonborn?”  
  
Odahviing. Even in her heavy stupor, her mind couldn't stop repeating his name like a mantra. Her protective instincts kicked in and she unsheathed both of her Dwarven swords. That simple gesture enraged him even more.  
  
“So that's your choice,” he hissed, like a rattlesnake ready to strike, but with a disconcerting touch of dismay. However, it was quickly smothered by a baleful, severe murmur. “Then this will be over soon. Well, for you.”  
  
The cold steel in his statement sobered her enough to cross her blades in a basic defensive stance. He was about to charge at her when an unexpected breath of powerful fire forced him to cast a deflective spell.  
  
“Odahviing, don't!” she shouted in vain. The red dragon did not deign her a glance. He floated a few feet over her head, his fiery eyes never leaving his new target.  
  
“Miraak!” he thundered. A sliver of pure dread was detectable in his roar. He had watched first-hand how easily Vinthuruth had been devoured. In spite of it all, though, he was still trying to aid her in some way, and that really touched some tender strings inside her heart. How could old 'Viing be such a wonderful, but meddlesome, idiot?  
  
“Drem Yol Lok, Odahviing.” Miraak did not bother to conceal any of his contempt. “Very foolish of you to attack me so. Now you, too, will bend to the mul of my Thu'um, like all of your kin.”  
  
His threat shook her to the core, especially because behind the arrogance of his voice lurked an eager glee of malicious anticipation. Her gut twisted at what was going to come next, the Bend Will Shout, and then swiftly after... She didn't dare to imagine it, but immediately acted instead.  
  
Her Fus Ro Dah hurled him against the trunk of a nearby tree, leaving him breathless for a few precious seconds.  
“Odahviing, go! Tell the others to stay away from this area! Quickly!” she ordered frantically, shooing him away with her arms. “Do not leave Monahven for any reason at all!” She had never sounded so frightened, so completely opposite from that cheeky, careless forwardness he was used to, and that alone alarmed the red dragon.  
“What mess did you fly into, Dovahkiin?”  
“Not now! Just go!” she screamed, exasperated. It was that unvoiced ‘please’ that stopped Odahviing in his tracks, and extinguished the burning spark of a new, vehement protest. After casting a worried glance, he reluctantly flew away, and she finally sighed in relief, feeling that squashing burden lifted from her shoulders.  
  
It was short-lived, though, because heavy, determined steps marched forbiddingly behind her back. She turned to face him, ready to dodge any type of destruction spell he could throw. Miraak had recovered from her Thu'um too fast for her liking, but at least Odahviing was safe from his wrath.  
  
“Impressive,” he commented in a clipped tone. “Odahviing, right-hand of Alduin, following your orders without any coercion.” The slight awe present in his tone swiftly shifted to plain, accusing grudge. “In league with dragons are we, now?” he tutted reprovingly. “How unsurprising of you. Wuld.”  
  
She had but a second to parry his cleaving blow, her heels slowly sinking in the soft soil to counter his brute strength. His golden mask was inches away from their clashing blades, the resentment in his growl unmistakable.  
  
“So easily you betray me after all this years,” he spat with unprecedented ferocity. The blades screeched as they slid against each other, and she had to put forth all her strength to stop her knees from giving.  
  
“After all I have done,” he growled like a rabid beast, “you flee at the first opportunity!” He retreated back with a sprint and then flung forward, almost making her lose her balance.  
  
“I surrendered the key to my destiny!” he stressed with more venom. She managed to hide her uncertainty, rolling to the side just in time to avoid a horizontal swath from his sword. Wobbly, she stood up, and was forced to raise both of her swords to halt another assault.  
  
“I renounced my opportunity to unlock the gates to my freedom.” He suddenly disengaged and spun to lunge at her back, as he had done in many of their spars, and she automatically twirled backwards to match his blade. “Only to be compensated with treachery!”  
  
His raw shout shook her hearing with such thundering, boiling accusation that her frail, almost non-existent dig broke with a loud crack. The gall he had to play the victim!  
  
“You vile fraud!” She lunged forward. “Wretched scum! Rotten, ugly troll!” A flood of obscenities poured down on him with a high, deafening screech.  
  
“Waste of Sithis!” she roared in her frenzy, and he was forced to retreat from a rain of slashes just to preserve his hearing. “Foul spawn of Sanguine! You dare to talk after calling me a trollop!”  
  
“That does not justify your prompt defection!” he hissed back in defence, but his tone slightly wavered, and it was obvious his words were more to avoid the admission that he was partly in the wrong, and that she was, after all, due an apology. However, he quickly recovered, and went on with even more grit, “And your tongue was no merciful balm either!”  
  
“And then you shamelessly coo with that hussy wench at the inn!” She swung her swords with alarming, unpredictable carelessness, and he retreated even more.  
  
“What?” he exclaimed, sounding clearly flabbergasted, but his protest was drowned by even higher screams, each of them very well stressed with blows, lethal in brute force, but sloppy in their aim.  
  
“I hate you! I hope you die! I hope you got brainrot, too!”  
  
“So you left me because of unjustified jealousy.” His voice suddenly dropped to his usual low, assertive smoothness, but a tinge of surprised calculation was still detectable.  
  
“Me, jealous? You wish, arrogant jerk!” Her deranged voice was getting hoarse and raw from too much yelling.  
  
“I was just ordering a meal, you fool.”  
“Don't try to play innocent! I saw! I saw!”  
  
“Your aim is sloppy,” he suddenly commented with a calm usually reserved for soothing wild, skittish horses, and how could one blame him? She was brandishing her swords like they were one-handed maces. “And, as you can see, I am restraining myself,” he went on with a trace of uneven breath as he dodged her swords just seconds before they could slice his shoulder. “So desist, and stop this foolishness. Now. Do not force my hand.”  
  
He lunged forward in an attempt to anticipate her next assault and gain some ground, but she tripped, like a novice, on her own very steps. The force behind the leap was too powerful, and his abrupt slowdown could not stop his Daedric poisoned blade from plunging into her shoulder and cutting diagonally to her hip, tearing the fur like common paper.  
  
She laid motionless on the ground, stinging warmness seeping from her back and forming a sticky pool around her waist, soaking the fur. She twisted her nose; the fresh grass was tickling her face.  
  
“Don't move!” The odd anxiety in his tone should have warned her of the gravity of her situation, but she could only feel her head pounding. Stupid mead. Her dizzy vision slowly obscured and her lids drooped more. Her cheek suddenly stung.  
“Stay awake!” A sharp bark reached her muffled hearing. Had he really pinched her? She should have slapped him for that, but instead she laid still, and certainly not because he had ordered her to do so. An odd tiredness was creeping around her limbs, sedating her muscles.  
  
“You were supposed to block such a simple blow!” The far echo of a hoarse shout made her blink. It carried the same distress of someone abruptly forced to fix a hazardous negligence.  
An annoying buzz diffused over her back and penetrated inside her numb ears, making her frown. It was identical to the bothersome hums that could be heard in Whiterun when one walked near Kynareth's temple.  
  
“Foolish girl! How much alcohol did you imbibe?” His angry yell sounded oddly panicky.  
“How- How did you know?” she slurred, confirming his suspicions.  
“The wound is not responding to the mending as it should.” His gritted hiss resumed a more smooth quality, similar to the professional detachment of Danica Pure-Spring.  
“Oh.” The light and its hum became even more intense. “Did you see?” Her own voice was barely a rasped whisper, but she did not seem to notice and went on. “I could keep up with you even a bit tipsy!” Now that the rabbit was out of the hat, she could at least rub it in his face, right?  
  
“You are drunk, stupid ninny, and you are forcing me to cast Healing Wounds.” There was a renewed strain in his voice. “Bless Lorhkan I did not tap my magicka pool before.”  
“You ruined my armour again. How annoying,” she drawled with a heavy tongue. It may have been inconsequential to him, but it was her bloody gold. His resigned sigh was amplified by the mask. “We will buy another one.”  
“Uh. Your magicka itches. It tingles. Like lots of ants. Stop?” she blurted out of the blue, and then giggled, after hearing another long, weary sigh. Perhaps she really was a little drunk, but just a bit.  
  
As abruptly as the hum disappeared, she felt arms slide under her waist and lift her up like a potato sack.  
“I can walk,” she grunted, peering around. “Put me down, you idiot! This is embarrassing!” She swung her legs in the air in a clumsy attempt to kick him away, when she noted with alarm that they were approaching Riften’s eastern gate. “Did you hear me?” she screeched and wiggled, only ridiculing herself further in front of the two sniggering guards.  
  
Miraak just grumbled something unintelligible, and with one arm tightened his hold around her knees. “Stop it, and no, you can't. You will stumble like the pitiful drunkard you have become.”  
  
He stepped into The Bee and Barb and nodded tersely to the Argonian owner, quickly throwing a small pouch he managed to quickly grab from one of his hidden side pockets on the counter, and proceeded to go upstairs.  
  
“How did you buy that armour—did you steal it?” he asked with a slight grunt while climbing the stairs. She did not even hide her rolling eyes and huffed. Great, he expected answers now.  
  
“I did not, you nasty-minded bastard. I earned them fair and square, for your information!”  
  
“Well, you needed not.” From the way he spat those words, she knew that he was sneering. “Especially in light of their innermost benefit.” Even if his voice had regained its velvety low cadence, it was obvious he was still irate. A discordant, lurking contentment smoothed the sharpness of his following tirade. “Such recklessness. Did I not tell you I would have provided it for you? Mm? But, of course, perish the thought that you would exercise even a little common sense.”  
  
It was his authoritative tone, though—not the rant, per se, or the insults entwined within it—that sent her ballistic, despite her current daze.  
  
“I don't need your support! I didn't before and I certainly don't now!” she tried to holler in his face, but only a weird cry came out from her throat.  
  
“Yes, and how well you are handling it, addled in alcoholic stupor.” There was a note of annoying gloating in his condescending comeback.  
  
She did not have time to mull over a decent retort. He had already entered the room and laid her on the bed. “Wait here and don't move.”  
  
She grunted, irritated. He was still ordering her around. However, that line of thought died away as her gaze lost itself, and she blinked at the wooden framework of the small ceiling. Too many crossed girders.  
  
Heavy, metallic steps could soon be heard again, passing through the corridor.  
As fast as the wooden door creaked, the metal wires of the door sprang with a loud click and Miraak's shadow covered her face, distracting her from the ceiling patterns.  
  
“Here,” he said succinctly. “The innkeeper has been gracious enough to sell me this.” And he threw a green maid garb over her chest. She tilted her chin to the other side and folded her arms stubbornly. “I won't wear that stupid dress!” She was a warrior, not some common tavern wench!  
  
“Enough of your childishness.” The hiss resounding behind the mask left little to the imagination. His teeth were clearly clenched in an ugly snarl. “I'm really getting tired of it.” And that was an understatement. From the way his fists were tightly squeezed at his sides, he was more than peeved, he was positively seething.  
  
“Then just go and leave me be,” she snarled back, uncaring or oblivious to his anger. “I am already used to it.”  
  
“Very well. As you wish.” His tone returned to his terse, but low, controlled smoothness as he turned back towards the door. “Don't expect me to come back.” His gloved hand gripped the door handle.  
  
“I do not,” she said scathingly, but then added, “They never do.”  
  
It was murmured with reproach, a fleeting afterthought of a gloomy daze, not intended to reach his ears or to be shared, but it escaped, nonetheless. He stopped from turning the handle and stood there, still.  
  
“They,” he said out loud, almost like he was tasting the word, and then remained silent for some time as if he was quickly analysing the matter. He had always been much too perceptive and shrewd for her liking. He could have asked many irrelevant questions, like 'who,' but instead he nailed the right one. “Why?” he worded, slowly, loud enough so that it could not be ignored.  
A little part of her brain, the one that was still lucid, told her to shut that big mouth of hers or lie through her teeth, but the rest was too numbed, so she just carelessly blabbered, because, well, it's not like it would have changed anything.  
  
“They just don't like it,” she explained with an airy tone, like it was so incredibly obvious. He slightly turned around, and threw a calculating gaze at her.  
  
“Like what?” There was suspicion in his voice, as though he was, for a brief moment, truly considering that she could really be pulling his leg.  
  
“The truth,” she stated matter-of-factly.  
  
“Explain.” His hand left the handle and he completely turned to stare at her. He was now intrigued.  
  
“They first go all gaga. When they meet the Dragonborn. And so they expect. Ask, ask. To do this and that. But it is enough. They see past.” She waved her hands in the air to accompany her disconnected phrases and her deep frown, like she was explaining a very difficult concept. And then she dropped her arms, suddenly brooding. “They don't even try to remember my name.”  
  
Some seconds of silence ticked away as she stared morosely at the ceiling.  
  
“I... see,” he commented at last, sounding quite taken aback.  
  
“So that is the issue,” he muttered more to himself than to her. “Is that what you truly believe?” he questioned in a more assertive tone, while slowly approaching the edge of the bed. “What about Lydia, then.” His large shadow was looming over her again, his tall shape obscuring the lamp hanging from the wall. “She never left your side.”  
  
“She is my Housecarl, she thinks it is her duty.” She looked straight at his mask. The flickering lights gave it an ominous look. He continued, undeterred.  
  
“Paarthurnax. He was your cherished teacher, wasn't he?”  
“Only because I am the Dragonborn.”  
  
“The Greybeards, then.” His tone became slow and deep, almost hypnotic. “You told me they welcomed you with unexpected warmth.”  
“They follow Paarthurnax's lead. They were bound to do so.” He sat on the edge of the bed, next to her waist, and went on.  
  
“The ones that helped you during your first hunts.” His delicate prodding was strangely soothing.  
  
“Delphine and Esbern?” she muttered, disoriented. “They are the Blades. They swore to serve the Dragonborn.”  
  
“Odahviing. He tried to protect you from me at great risk, you can't deny it.”  
“He promised his fealty if I defeated Alduin.” She must have sounded too pained, because he grabbed her hand and squeezed it lightly, to catch her attention.  
“This self-defeating attitude does not belong to you,” he commented resolutely, his tone suddenly sharper. “This is just the alcohol and the loss of blood taking their toll.”  
  
“You know nothing!” she barked, but as soon as her temper exploded she returned to that eerie, spaced-out calm. “As I said, you are no different.”  
His shoulders stiffened. “What makes you believe so?”  
“I only grabbed your interest because of my title and all those stupid books you read.” She whispered that, like she was commenting on the weather. However, her expression abruptly morphed into an ugly snarl. “Well, I am not like all those idiotic bards sing about, I will never be.” She continued with the same previous candour, “Sooner or later you will have enough, too.” And then she added with a note of arrogant, challenging superiority, “Ha! You will see.” It was ruined, though, by a slight grimace.  
  
“So you read only one of those books and only a little part.” Miraak's tone turned darker as he slightly inclined over her to stress his point. “I assure you, I know more about you than you credit me for.” He gently held her upper arms and pulled her in a sitting position.  
  
“Yeah, sure,” she grumbled, as he lifted her legs to rest them over his lap.  
  
“What if I told you, then, that every single detail written in those books changes every time the reader turns to the next page.” He added slyly, as he pulled out one of her boots, “Or when you make even the most insignificant choice.” She squirmed the toes of her feet, suddenly chilled by the fresh air.  
  
“Are you telling me,” she inclined her head to look at him, baffled, while he started to unfasten one of her gloves, “that I won't attack Windhelm for the Imperials? Or hunt vampires?”  
  
“You could, or you could not,” he answered vaguely, as he switched to the other glove. “I've read them over and over. There are so many different, discordant paths and, believe me, I know how much you may shine, but I also know many facets of your worst side.” He took the fur helmet from her head and dumped it on the floor, together with the other pieces.  
  
“These little theatrics of yours,” he remarked with some contempt, as he loosened her unkempt braid, “are nothing in comparison.” And then he started to unclasp the various buckles of her armour.  
“Tell me,” he went on, as he freed her chest from the leather fur, “do you really desire to fulfil this silly self-prophecy of yours?” He did not give her a chance to shake her head, he had already put the dress on her. “Then stop acting like a fickle, spoiled Daedra,” he acidly stated, and she couldn't stop from blushing at his sudden, harsh reprimand. She tried to hide it as she wiggled to fumble with the laces, but he turned her around and took over.  
  
“I have been tempted to retrieve the Oghma Infinium,” he abruptly admitted in a darker mood, as he fastened the last lace with a tight pull, “and be done with all of this.”  
She swiftly turned around incredulous. “You would never!”  
“I would.” One of his gloved hands gently rested on her cheek and tilted her chin up, a sharp contrast to the threatening edge of his low growl. “If you force my hand.”  
She continued to stare at him, dumbfounded.  
“You look very pale,” he commented casually, as he played with one of the curls that rested over her bosom. “You should get some sleep.”  
He was going to get up, but she grabbed his arm and pushed him down.  
“Wait. Why in Oblivion would you ever want to go back?”  
He sighed, quite irritated, and then stood up. “Must I always spell everything out for you?” he grunted out and walked toward the door.  
  
Even in her addled state she could see it was just a mean-spirited bluff, an insincere threat to keep her in check. No way that he would be so vindictive, and do that just to spite her. However, in a warped, completely twisted sort of way, it was the sweetest thing he had ever said to her. Later, she would blame it all on the alcohol. It was easier, too convenient, and probably even half true. In that moment, though, she just knew she didn't want him to leave, so she leaped forward to grab his waist, and with a strength she wasn't even aware she was exerting, she slammed him against the door. He did not have time to react, or question her crazy behaviour, because he was already being dragged to the floor by the crash of her weight, tightly clasped against his body.  
  
“What the...” he tried to shout, but she tore off his mask and took advantage of his shocked bewilderment and shut his mouth with a fierce, demanding kiss. She was too light, though, and he easily rolled her down, pinning her arms at her sides. When she looked up, her eyes prickled at the sight. His face was contorted in pure rage.  
  
“Enough!” he spat with such vehemence that she instinctively cringed. “You clearly are not in a right state of mind!” A tear slid down her cheek. “I won't lengthen the list of your recriminations,” he gritted, more subdued, as a sob escaped from her throat. However, his moment of faint regret did not last long.  
  
“Are you truly so desperate,” he added in a low, cold hiss, “that you would throw yourself at my feet at the mere mention of losing your freedom?” Her chest was shaking now, and tears rolled down freely, but his grip around her wrists tightened, and he went on ruthlessly.  
  
“Do you truly think,” and his tone dropped even lower, to a strangled hiss, as his eyes thinned to mere slits, “that your wiles would still work, after you flat-out said I make you sick?”  
“I said that to hurt you!” she bellowed in his face, but he did not even flinch.  
“And nothing plunges sharper than the steel of raw truth, right?” he hissed back with pure venom.  
“Yes, but you don't understand!” she shrieked as she thrashed about to free her arms, but his hold was too firm. “It gets worse when I'm far away!”  
“What are you raving about now?”  
“At first I thought that I was truly sick,” she started to wail, “that I got brainrot or something.”  
“You really are wasted,” he commented with disdain, but she continued, completely ignoring his scorn. “So I went to the Temple, but the blessings did not work. It got worse.”  
“Indeed. Worse.”  
“Yes. Weak. Confused. Dizzy. Breathless. Like an invisible leash choking my throat.” She was calmer, and just hiccupped, but went on nonetheless, in a high-pitched whisper. “Like a curse. I thought it was you, a way to spite me for what I said.”  
“I did not do such thing!” he commented, outraged. “But of course you would blame me. I am the cause of all of your disgrace, right? You are inebriated, you stupid fool!”  
“Yes, yes!” she whined. “I am always feeling like that. Inebriated. Help me. I don't recognize myself anymore.”  
  
He remained oddly mute and kept her pinned on the floor for some minutes, wearing a peculiar, nonplussed frown, while his gaze wandered over her head, lost in thought, until a weird grunt finally left his throat, and his grip slackened around her wrists.  
His shoulders slightly trembled and his lips pursed in a tight, tensed line, but the guttural snort that leaked from them, no matter how much he tried to stifle it, soon turned into a low chuckle. He was soon sitting on the floor, clutching his bent torso as he let out a rich, loud guffaw.  
  
She sluggishly sat up, throwing him a confused glance. It was surreal, hearing Miraak laugh with such abandon.  
“How... You...” he rasped hoarsely, while trying to catch his breath. “How in Oblivion can you be so obtuse?” His expression visibly softened with a sly smirk and a strange glint appeared in his eyes. He was suddenly in an inexplicably better mood.  
  
“Oh yes, little dov. I will help you.” His voice resumed its suave, manipulative, slow cadence, but a trace of laughter was nonetheless still perceivable. “I cannot deny such heartfelt pleas, after all.”  
  
If she had been more clear-headed, she would have immediately been on the lookout, because something was clearly off, and, if she had been completely sober, she would have already screamed obscenities at him for mocking her plight so shamelessly. Instead she just accepted his offered hand to stand up and sit again next to him on the bed.  
  
“Akatosh is witness that I try,” he murmured, with a soft, strange edge. And then he did something really odd: he gently lifted her hand to his lips and kissed its back. “But you were right,” he added, as he pushed her down with him in the fur mattress. “I am a sick wretch.” His warm breath tickled her nape, as he unfastened the laces. Then one arm slithered between the furs and over the curve of her side to encircle her waist tightly.  
  
“Beyond cure.” His hand slowly pulled down the shoulder strap until the scoop neck of her loosened bodice could not hold up her exposed breasts anymore. She slightly curled up, only to feel his arm pushing her waist against his torso, and his heavy bulk adjust over hers, pressing her side against the pelts.  
  
“This is all your fault,” he whispered near her ear, in a mocking parody of a stern reprimand. His hand slid over her thigh and dragged the hem of the gown to the hip, eliciting a faint moan. “I always try to play nice.” The arm clasping her waist slightly rose so that he could touch her breast, and her small hand clutched his gloved one, encouraging his gentle fondling.  
  
“But you have to be such an unruly little ninny.” His lips rested on the curve of neck, and she arched it further, so that his lingering kiss would shift to a soft, possessive bite. “Spouting such idiocies.” She heard the unclasping of his belt and shivered at its meaning.  
  
“Yes, I should have coaxed your forgiveness from the start,” he remarked, pressing his bare loins against her thighs, and the blood rushed like a scorching blaze to her cheeks. It was the first time she had ever heard him utter any form of apology, even the faintest. “But then you would not be here,” he growled darkly, as his arousal slowly slid between her soft, tightened legs, “pining like a little Argonian maid.” The gloating attitude dripping from his husky, unsubtle insinuations, should have pricked her touchy pride. Instead she only clamped her thighs even more, squeezing between their softness his familiar, welcomed intrusion, just to draw forth that cherished, guttural hum next to her ear. The same one that always made her skin shiver and her heartbeat speed up in a startling, terrifying race.  
  
He nibbled her earlobe in retaliation, and got a tiny, strangled whine, which soon became an erratic, long moan, when his tongue teased the back of her ear. His hips pressed further against her back, and his large bulk slightly squashed her against the pelts at each new push.  
He was trying to extort another, needy whimper from her, stroking her drenched lips with the alluring promise of his hardness, while slightly brushing her hidden, swollen spot with its tip.  
  
She could not stop herself from letting a small wanton moan escape, and snuggled up a little more, pressing her back against him, just to let it slide better. After gripping the gloved hand that fondled her breasts more tightly, she let her other hand wander down, so that her fingers could slightly rub the underside of his arousal, each time its tip reached them. Her tentative touch became a delicate, but pressing caress of her palm after he released a guttural hum of appreciation. However, the same hand that firmly anchored her waist, quickly held her wrist back.  
“Behave, or I won't last much,” he growled as he raised her leg over his own, spreading her thighs with his knee.  
  
“I will make sure,” he added in a low drawl, as the tip of his cock parted her folds, “that you will always be this feverish.” His words became hoarser as he slowly sank farther inside her embracing warmth. “Light-headed.” And then his tone dropped even lower, to a husky purr, as if he was whispering a well-guarded secret. “Weakened.” And the leathered palm that pressed her belly, slid down to rest over her soaked mound to rub it with teasing gentleness.  
  
“I will intoxicate you over and over,” he tried to add sinisterly, but traces of a stifled chuckle still rumbled in his throat, “if necessary.” And he plunged hard, to stress its twisted meaning, and force a little cry out from her.  
  
“But enough of this silliness,” he continued with heavy condescension as he resumed a milder rhythm, just to make her groan in frustration and flaunt who retained still some control. “You will call it by its proper name, from now on.” Even with her flushing face pressed against the furs, she could still hear how his voice wavered, as he buried his nose deep in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent.  
  
“I am lovesick. Say it,” he whispered just over her ear, kissing her cheekbone, and she trembled as his fingers continued to ruthlessly stroke around her little, aching spot.  
  
“Say it.” And her breath hitched when the leather of his glove scorched her sensitized breasts, and his thumb slightly rubbed her nipple.  
  
“And you will feel better.” She clawed the pelt in desperation when he started to withdraw even more slowly, only to plunge again with more harshness. She was under siege.  
“I promise you,” he went on, and she whimpered louder when it hit that far away spot, one he knew how to reach all too well. She couldn't supress a suffering, high-pitched moan when he once again pulled out excruciatingly slowly, just to dive in with a sharp thrust. It was pure torture.  
  
“So?” he hissed through gritted teeth, as if it was affecting him too. “When did you become such a coward?” And he sank harder, like he was ramming a fort.  
  
“I'm...” she managed to squeak after his new assault. Her body was reduced to a quivering mess and she could not handle it anymore. She just capitulated. “I'm lovesick.” It was a feeble whisper, interrupted by uneven intakes of breath, but he caught it nonetheless.  
  
“Yes, that's my girl,” he rasped in approval, and plunged fast and hard a few more times so that her weakened limbs would finally crumble under the weight of a shattering burst, spreading fast from its core to overwhelm her, relentless and piercing like the erratic wail that left her lungs.  
  
It did not matter anymore, she thought, as she quivered in pleasure. She had already been losing it in Apocrypha—after she read those poisonous Mara's pamphlets, or after she heedlessly indulged in seemingly innocuous fantasies of play pretend. And then, he had always known how to seize what he wanted, from the very beginning.  
  
“Ah, if only...” she heard him grit in frustration, through her muffled haze. He pulled out and forced her to firmly shut again her thighs, so that he could reach his own pleasure between them. Now that she was a tiny bit more collected, though, she grabbed his hand in a little spur of devious revenge, pulled away the glove and slid the tip of his index finger in her mouth, with very clear intent.  
  
“Next time,” he grunted as he shoved with raw strength, crushing her against the furs, “I will put that little mouth of yours to good use.” His threat, however, did not sound very menacing, nor did the feeble groan that left his throat, and so she could not refrain from letting out a giggle and teasing him more.  
“And then I will suck it all, like the sweetest Honey Nut Treat,” she whispered back brazenly, as she kissed the palm of his hand. It must have been lewder than she thought, because his weight suddenly shook, falling over her back, and a guttural, unrestrained groan resounded loudly from the crook of her neck. The clamped slit between her inner thighs became more sticky and warm, and then his bulk slowly lifted away as he lazily pulled back and rolled to her side in order to recover his uneven, heavy breathing.  
  
“So… Did we make peace? Did w—” She turned her head, only for her next word to be stifled by a kiss.  
“Mm. What do you think?” he purred after parting from her lips, and rolled her with delicate subtleness, caressing her hip to slightly part her thighs, so that he could peek, with dark appreciation, how his come lingered on her slippery folds.  
She was going to demand some cuddling, when, without any forewarning, he rose and sat on the edge of the bed. “Where are you going?” She blinked, perplexed, unable to smother a whine of disappointment, when he started fastening his outer robes.  
“I,” his odd mellow voice wavered in an unusual way as he stood up, “need something to drink.” He hesitated a moment, but then turned back and softly caressed her cheek. “You rest. Tomorrow we will resume our travel.” And then he quickly left the room.  
  
She stared dumbly at the closed door for several minutes, with a silly, contented smile on her face, basking in the afterglow of soothing appeasement. It was wonderfully dizzying how suddenly everything seemed to readjust itself, like magic! Perhaps she could still indulge in her little reveries, in the safety of her mind. Perhaps she could even dare to hope for some of them to come true. Perhaps... Her inner rambling was chopped from the root, though, when a horrible thought struck her chest, like a jolt of lightning from a clear sky.  
The amulet. She had to retrieve it in some way before Miraak noticed, and fast. She quickly lunged forward to reach her boots and put them on as she bit her lip in apprehension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon language:
> 
> Dovahkiin! Ahst laat hi rein! = Dragonborn! At last you roar! 
> 
> Veyn lost hi kosaan? = Where have you been? 
> 
> Krosis = sorry
> 
> Rot = words
> 
> geh, kung = yes, a lot
> 
> Drem Yol Lok = Greetings
> 
> mul = strength
> 
> Thu'um = Voice
> 
> Monahven = Throat of the World


	12. Eye

12.  
(Miin)  
  
\- Fredas, 23th of Mid-Year -  
  
Her little plan seemed flawless as she crouched on the stairs to peek at the tables downstairs. Lady Luck was on her side, because Miraak was indeed sitting in a corner with his back turned to the stairs and, more importantly, to the side entrance. The mission couldn't have been simpler—she just had to slip out, run to Madesi to get the necklace, and then return before he finished his drink to shamelessly feign a deep sleep. There was no way that she could have botched such a simple plan, right?  
  
She slightly banged her forehead on the rough surface of the wall for the umpteenth time. Why, oh why, had she never followed any of her housecarls’ advice? Damn the moment she had first tasted that cursed Black Briar mead.   
  
No matter how much she threatened or begged, that greedy snake Madesi had refused to give her back the amulet. Now that she was completely sober and with a pounding headache, she really could not blame him. Those empty promises of fetching him sapphires and mammoth tusks were certainly not persuasive enough to give back a jewel bought for 750 gold.  
  
It must have been the way she had pronounced 'sapphires,' as though she were getting desperate enough to willingly suggest an underhanded deal, that induced the shrewd man to subtly accost her when she left Madesi, dejected.  
  
“That Madesi is a hard nut to crack, eh?” the strange man suddenly said, throwing at her his most winning smile. She had just blinked dumbly at him with slightly flushed cheeks after lifting her head to look at him for the first time, staring straight into his playful eyes. The dark blonde, portly stranger had a really strange, alluring charm that just made him approachable. And then he had continued, with a sudden conspiratorial whisper—still maintaining, with no effort, his previous congenial, and more importantly, unsuspecting attitude in front of the crowd: “However, that could be easily remedied with the right dose of persuasion, if you catch my drift.”  
  
The only thing she had caught at the time was that the attractive stranger could get back the amulet for her, and that had been incentive enough to immediately grab her interest. “I am listening.”  
  
“You see,” the way he slightly bent to whisper next to her ear, with cheeky familiarity, made her slightly uneasy, “that pesky Argonian is really attached to his grandmother's ring. He even keeps it locked in a box.” The man subtly had pointed his index finger toward Madesi's stand. “To protect it from pick-pocketers during the daytime, you see.”   
His derisive chuckle should have been warning enough—but, no, she had to accept one of his shady deals. “It’s so old, though, that even a child could break it open during the good show I will put on.”  
  
“Wait, wait,” she had whispered back, alarmed. “I am no thief! I don't even know how to hold a lock pick!” That was the only brief moment when her common sense had the wisdom to resurface and knock some salt into her head.  
“What an opportunity, then, to have some training in the field?” he answered smartly, displaying his most persuasive smile. “You want that amulet back, right?”   
It had been the right thing to mention, and the scoundrel had known that. Just the word 'amulet' popped her timid common sense like an inconsistent soap bubble. “Of course! What a question.”  
“Then take his ring and slip it in the pocket of that merchant over there. Don't worry, your hands are tiny enough that he won't even notice.”  
“And how is that supposed to get me my amulet?”  
“It's very simple. When Brand-Shei gets caught by the guards, we use the ring for some old-fashioned barter. You see, we have contacts among the jailers.”  
  
The last phrase should have been a clear indication that the conniving man was a member of the thieves’ guild and thus had to be avoided like a rotten skeever, but his offer had sounded so tempting, so alluring in its seemingly linear simplicity. Yes, what a simple, fool-proof plan! For Brynjolf only, though.   
  
Now, just a few hours later, she sighed and laid back on a dirty, unmade bed. There was no window to peek out of, but she could sense from the chilling coldness that it was midnight. She had been duped like a fool. With hindsight, it was as clear as the summer sky that she was supposed to be the true distraction, the scapegoat. It was still incredible how she had somehow managed to open the box and take Madesi's ring without being caught—that had to be what veterans liked to call 'beginner's luck.' However, it had not lasted long, and soon Brand-Shei’s high-pitched Elven screams not only had beckoned all the attention to her, but also a rain of righteous blows from a swarm of guards.  
  
She flinched as she slowly huddled up to retain a little bit of warmth, her back aching at the smallest movement. That backstabbing traitor of Brynjolf! Instead of aiding her in her desperate attempt to flee, he had seized her and feigned helping the guards, just to tear Madesi's ring from her fist. The ring that she had supposedly pick-pocketed from Brand-Shei. Yes, that Dunmer had been framed, too, and had been throwing her homicidal stares from the opposite cell for the whole night, muttering what she could bet were obscenities in his native language.  
  
She had so many hours to ponder on what had happened at the inn, and the more she mulled over it, the more flushed and resentful she became. That shameless wretch of Miraak. He had purposely taken advantage of her confused state to make her talk like a little silly lark. First he had pried at her guarded weaknesses, and then, like it had not been humiliating enough, he had forced her to say such embarrassing things! How in Oblivion could she look him straight in the face now? His warped ways of payback were just horrible and downright nasty. Surely, from now on, he would not waste a chance to throw it in her face at every possible occasion, flashing around that arrogant smirk of his. She grimaced at the mere prospect as she hid her face under her crossed arms. Being caught completely wasted by him—how degrading.   
  
Despite all of that resentment, she wasn't able to ignore that weird, constant, giddy glee twirling in her chest. So the bastard had also shamelessly lied through his teeth. You would feel better, he had said, and instead she felt more frenzied, worse than she could have ever imagined. Now that it was out in the open and impossible to swallow back, the damn thing just refused to sink down and quietly ruminate in the farthest recess of her mind. For a moment she contemplated the absurd possibility of pretending a convenient and very selective loss of memory. After all, the guards had not been thrifty with their beating. Pity that she had always been a disaster at acting, and Miraak was not a tiny bit stupid.  
  
Until then its unsettling rustle was easily squashed by distracting thoughts, but now, no matter how much she tried to hold it back, it just resurfaced to flood her common sense, expanding slowly and inexorably, engulfing one by one all of her thoughts until her lungs were completely crushed by its weight.  
  
Her heart skipped a bit. No, no, absolutely not! She was not ready to drown like this, she could not! She abruptly sat down and slapped her flushed face. She had to immediately stop fostering the thing further with such inconvenient brooding. It was difficult, however, while cooped up in a stinky, humid prison.  
  
It was then, as she tried to recompose herself, that one of the guards quickly walked in front of her cell and with a turn of a rusty key, opened its door. “Well, thief rat, it seems some idiot thought to bail you out.” He sneered and rudely pulled her out, dragging her up the stairs until he left her in front of the main entrance of Riften Jail, shutting the gate behind her back with a loud clang.  
  
It was like she thought—from the position of the two full moons, it was obviously past midnight. The night air was even more humid, and a blow of a chilly breeze made her exposed arms slightly shudder with goose bumps. Or was it the sight of Miraak leaning on the wall a few feet from her?  
  
The knot in the stomach returned again, but this time she recognized it for what it was—foreboding. She had once felt the same overwhelming urge to flee when Odahviing left her in Skuldafn to fight for the first time, completely alone, dozens of draugr deathlords and ancient dragons coming at her. He was like Alduin, though. Unavoidable. As if that wasn't troublesome enough, she itched with the sudden need to punch him and scream at him for what he had done. If only he had not become her constant, unmovable anchor. When exactly he had shifted to that role, she couldn't remember. Why she craved to leap upon him and squeeze his breath away with a thankful, possessive hug, and smother him with kisses, well, that was just incomprehensible. She did not dare to even utter a faint greeting, however, not after observing the tense way his arms were folded or how he refused to cross her stare, in a straight, rigid posture.  
  
“Come.”   
Only a faint word, sharp and cold like the night breeze, left his unreadable golden mask, but it was enough for her attuned senses. She snuggled her bare arms and followed him with a grim face. He was livid. He uttered nothing else for the whole journey to the inn. It was not in his nature to make a scene in a public place, like she would have done with no qualms had their roles been reversed. Nonetheless, the dreaded moment he shut the door of their room occurred too soon and she braced herself for the incoming tirade.  
  
“Are you testing my patience, Dragonborn?” he hissed in barely contained rage. It was a rhetorical question and she wasn't so stupid to talk back—at least not then. It was never a good sign when he addressed her as Dragonborn like that. “I leave you alone for one moment.” He started pacing around the little room. “One moment.” His voice was gradually rising. “And you end up in jail.” He was shouting now. “In jail!”   
  
She remained strategically meek, and let him freely rant.  
  
“Do you have even the slightest idea,” and he stopped in front of her to bellow hoarsely in her face, “how much time I wasted looking around, like a complete fool?” And then his voice suddenly dropped to that initial menacing, low hiss, as he slightly bent towards her and grabbed her shoulders. “Explain. Now.”   
  
Her grimace and abrupt flinch must have been quite noticeable, because he immediately released his grip, as if burnt. “What did they do to you?” he asked suspiciously, with a strange, dark undercurrent that left her puzzled.  
  
“Eh, nothing.” She tried to minimize it with a wave of her hand. The last thing she wanted him to fixate upon was the true reason she had gotten so many beatings. “Just law enforcement’s usual show. They do it to impress the people.” It was not convincing enough, though, because he forced her to turn around.   
“Let me see,” he ordered tersely.  
“Ouch. Be careful, for Mara's sake!”  
“Be quiet, I am not even touching you yet.” He gritted his teeth as he quickly loosened the dress and examined her back. And then, without any warning, he rudely pushed her to lay down on the bed as the familiar buzz of a Restoration spell resounded in the air.  
“This is getting annoyingly frequent,” he grunted peeved. “You should really study some basic notions of Restoration.”  
  
“You know I find it boring.” Not to say that she lacked the necessary concentration. One had to wonder how she managed to learn those few bits of Destruction magic. “And why should I,” she then added as an afterthought, “when you already do it much better?”  
“So am I burdened to play nurse, now?” She must have said something right, because he chided her in a slightly better mood. “Knowing you,” he went on with a touch of grumpy jesting, “just the fact that you defeated Alduin and remained in one piece is indeed a feat.”  
“You should have seen how many health potions I carried with me to Sovengarde. I could have opened an Alchemy shop.” She snorted at the absurd notion. “Isn't it fantastic? Now that I have you, I will save lots of gold.” In some way, her mild quip made him chuckle slightly.  
“How charming of you,” he commented in a low purr, any trace of anger mysteriously gone, and just that change alone made that weird giddiness resurface back. “And studying Alchemy, of course, never crossed your mind, right?”  
“Are you mad?” She let a silly giggle escape. “Eating those slimy, icky Daedra’s hearts in the name of science? Just the idea is... gross! I wonder why so many mages waste their time with it when they already study all the other schools.”  
“It has its uses,” he answered vaguely, in a slow, deep voice.  
“Oh really?” she questioned lazily, his soothing cadence was already having an effect. “How is it, then, that you know so little of it?”  
“Did you see any plants in Apocrypha, by chance?” Well, yes, that explained a lot. “There, done,” he remarked, with a pat on her restored back. “Now sleep,” he ordered as he stood up to change into more comfy sleeping attire. So she somehow managed to overcome the storm unscathed, and avoid bringing forth the thorny necklace issue. She stretched, satisfied, as she observed how he rummaged through the nearby chest, and silently congratulated herself. It seemed that she was getting better at avoiding trouble. For some reason, however, she couldn't tear her attention from what he was doing.  
  
It was strange, she mused then, as she continued to follow his movements, how she had never really noticed before, even if it had always been there to see. How despite his size and his heavy bulk, his terse motions carried a natural predatory grace that could not conceal the raw strength coursing through them.   
  
She frowned and sprawled even more sluggishly on the bed, still looking at him intently. He finally picked a dark grey shirt and some black trousers, and turned over to put them over the drawer so that he could pull off his mask and his outer robes.  
  
He was really tired. It was obvious from the way his angular, large jawline was tensed. She took her time to detail his aquiline nose and high cheekbones. His facial features wore an austerity and a coarse sharpness that was typical of battle-scarred Nords beyond the prime of their years. Nevertheless, those same average Nordic traits that shouldn't catch any particular attention, suited his expression in a way that was strangely, yet inexplicably alluring, especially when they framed his inquisitive, but guarded gaze.   
  
He rested his gloves and belt on a nearby chair and started to unfasten the hidden clasps of his collar, quickly descending his torso, until all of them were loose and his bare, hairy chest was visible. He quickly discarded the cloth on the chair and slightly bent to take away his blue trousers. She couldn't help, but wonder how his muscles could be so enhanced and toned, despite the fact that he was a scholar of the arcane arts. He was not a man one would define attractive, and yet... She unconsciously nibbled her lip.   
  
“Is there something you have to tell me?” he suddenly asked, breaking her little reverie.  
“Huh?” she uttered dumbly, blinking a bit.  
“You keep staring,” he said matter-of-factly.  
“Ah. Well, um...” She could have invented something phony on the spot, but she wanted to avoid another stupid quarrel over nothing, so she just blurted out her thought. “You really are fit.”  
He abruptly turned away to pull on the other trousers, but not fast enough to hide from her inspecting eyes a slight, traitorous blush.   
“It is to be expected,” he grumbled, trying to conceal an odd discomfort that did not escape her attentive ears, “after many years of sword training.”  
“Are you purposely doing the contrary of what I tell you to do?” he then added gruffly, a clear attempt to deviate from the topic, but she noticed that he did not put on the linen shirt he had chosen before.   
She threw him a cheeky smile. “Perhaps.”  
That only earned a half-hearted scowl as he blew out the feeble fire of the lamplight. “Scoot. Under the pelts, now,” he rumbled in the dark, and then a light shove from a large mass pushed her to the side, making her squeak. It was thus only fair, to roll around and threw her weight over his side, just to get a disconcerted grunt from him. She slightly tapped her fingers against his side, as she rested her head on his chest absent-mindedly. No way that she would fall asleep after all the ruminations she’d had during her brief stay in jail. There were so many questions that danced wildly in her mind—and, knowing him, he surely had some answers.  
  
“Are you sleeping?”  
“Obviously not.”  
“We are going to Whiterun, right?”  
“Yes. Now hush.”  
  
“You have plans, right?” She heard a heavy sigh, but went on nonetheless. “You always have.” She murmured, while brushing a slight depression near his side with a finger. “Why don't you tell me?” It was one of his abs.   
“Now?” came a grumpy rumble from his chest. The slight movement of her head was enough to get another, longer sigh.   
“Well,” he started, but then stopped as if he was pondering on how to continue. She just silently waited, while slowly tracing the next muscle. He could take all the time he needed, as long as he talked to her. “I had some,” he finally revealed in a low whisper, “but I deem it wiser to probe the current political climate first.”   
Political? She frowned, nonplussed. As usual, his answers had to come out cryptic and obscure. Or perhaps it was just his fancy way of telling her he had no idea. She smiled as her finger reached his navel. Perhaps it was time to suggest some of her own ideas, like living together in Breezehome. She was going to start when she heard an annoyed grunt.  
  
“Stop it.”  
“What?”  
“You know very well what.”  
“Can't I even touch you now?”  
“Not that way!” he abruptly barked.  
“Why?” And she puffed. “It's not like I am trying anything.” She was not stupid, and also well aware that he was too weary for anything. However, from the way he snorted at her prompt comeback and the way he strangely shifted under the pelts, she quickly connected the dots.   
“Oh. Sorry, I did not mean to,” she uttered slightly chagrined.   
“Of course you did not,” he hissed resentfully, as though he were implying there was some kind of conspiracy against him. And was that smothered embarrassment she had just heard?   
“Well, well, well.” Luckily he could not see her wide grin, or he would have gotten all ruffled up. “Are you really so susceptible?” she teased as her fingers slowly slid down to lazily brush his abdomen.   
“I said stop it, you bothersome nuisance,” he grunted, almost resigned, because when had she ever listened to him.   
“Are you really, really sure?” she taunted, as her fingers finally encircled something quite thick and warm. “I doubt it will let you sleep like that,” she commented as her slow fondling made it grow thicker. An exasperated groan reached her ears. “You should have told me, you idiot.”   
“And I told you to stop it!” he hissed back.   
  
She was slightly piqued by his foiled attempt at secrecy, but she could not blame him because she knew very well what was worrying him.  
  
“Don't talk like I'm molesting you!” Her voice came out feeble and muffled as she scuttled down the pelts. “I am helping here, in case you haven't noticed yet.” Well, there was always a first time for everything.   
“What are you doing?” A distressed growl came from afar, but he did not need further explanation when she started to provide her own peculiar assistance, in a way she had never done before. Until then, it had never been to give him respite—oh no, it was always a way to tease, to get back at him or grate his ego by slapping some warped kind of control straight in his face. This time, though...   
  
She was so tired of skirmishes and power games, playing pretend and the half-truths. She wanted them to finally quit it all, once and forever, and just be clear to each other. However, she was also well aware that it wasn't in his nature to reveal all of his cards first. That frightful burden rested on her shoulders, as usual.   
  
He seemed to have perceived her change of attitude, judging the way her dedicated lips were unusually merciful and affectionate. Instead of putting up a stoic composure, and overpowering her when his farce began to crumble, he just let himself relax under her ministrations, grumbling unintelligible half-ended sentences in Dovahzul until his hips buckled and he let out a loud hoarse groan. He was certainly not sweeter than honey, but she kept her promise until the very end, draining from him even his very breath. When his swelling receded to its previous slumber, she crawled again to rest next to his side. A small smile crossed her lips when she heard his deep, slow breathing. He must have been really tired, because he was already fast asleep.  
  
It was in that exact moment, when she rested her head on his shoulder, that the disconnected pieces of her previous, confused goals suddenly scrambled and readjusted to form a clear, unequivocal picture. When she closed her eyes, she had already assimilated a renewed, completely different, pig-headed determination that would have intimidated even the mightiest of dragons.   
  
The next morning she was in an inexplicably stellar mood. He must have thought it was too good to be true, and that she was already up to something—which, by the way, was absolutely spot on. Not that she was trying to hide anything, of course, but from the way he walked warily around her and threw, from time to time, brief suspicious looks at her turned side, he was obviously thinking the contrary. So he was slightly on edge, eh? Well, he now had all the time in the world to get used to it, her mind cackled maliciously as they sat on a table to eat breakfast.   
  
When he started to cut the fried eggs in tiny pieces and roll the bacon slices around his fork, never curving his straight back once, she almost snorted in her warm milk, risking a horrible mess, which his proper table manners would have surely not appreciated a bit. They were in a tavern, for Azura, not in the Blue Palace. She rolled her eyes behind her mug, and he must have noticed, because he raised a questioning eyebrow at her. That alone spurred her to flash him a wide, forward grin that was not reassuring at all. All the while she eyed the pickles he put apart with unconcealed greed.   
“So, are you going to eat them?” She did not give him time to nod; she had already stabbed his pickle with her fork and swallowed it down. His mild, reproachful frown did not deter her from stealing the next one.   
“I was wondering,” she went on playfully, with a devious glint that put him on guard, “when you are going to teach me dirty talk in Dovahzul.”   
His knife slipped from his grip and scraped the plate, producing an ugly, metallic screech. She bit her lip and tried to maintain a straight face while spreading some butter on a slice of bread. Messing with him was proving to be too much fun.   
“And why would I ever impart such questionable knowledge?” he pronounced slowly and very cautiously, throwing her a very guarded look.   
Good wording, she internally snickered, but not apt enough to shield him this time.   
  
“Well,” she drawled with feigned disinterest, “you know, the usual. Taunting dragons to fly down would be very useful.” His posture visibly relaxed. “Just Odahviing's shocked face would be priceless.” She purposely waited for him to drink his spiced wine. “And I'm really curious to know what you were saying last night. Can you translate, please?”   
He literally choked in his drink and she couldn't help but shamelessly laugh in his face as he coughed. She laughed until tears were rolling from her eyes and she too needed to catch her breath. Her glee was abruptly cut off though, when he banged his napkin against the table and she saw his red, furious face contort in an ugly snarl. She did not have time to utter a word of excuse. He had already stood up and marched like a fury out of the inn. She immediately ran out, too, and quickly seized his arm.  
“Leave me now!” he roared, trying to wiggle out of her hold, but she squeezed tighter.  
“Come on, don't get angry!” She had to resort to undignified pouting, but it was quickly working, so she kept it up. “It was just in jest! Please?” He was still ruffled up like an offended Jarl, but was nonetheless calming down.   
“I won't be made a fool of!” he hissed with pure rancour.   
“You do it all the time to me! It is only fair to get you back.”  
“Be assured that I won't stand for it. I will retaliate!” There was a touch of spiteful threat in his warning. It was so predictable from him that it did not upset her a bit. Instead she threw a disarming, wide grin his way that took him aback.   
“And I will pay you back. That's half the fun of it.”  
“Oh, I see,” he commented, suddenly mollified, like he had finally grasped some hidden aspect of the situation that she hadn't caught onto yet. She would bet anything that he just did that to irk her. “So that's how my little dov likes to play. Very well,” he purred as he slightly tapped her chin.   
He subtly ascertained with one guarded glance that they were, for the moment, alone, and then he slightly bent to plant a slow, sensual peck on her lips. From his crooked, arrogant smirk it was obvious the kiss was aimed to tease. Great, she thought, still blushing and feeling like a complete fool, he was already retaliating in the worst form. “Come,” he then said like nothing happened, while putting on his mask. “We still have to make some purchases.”  
  
Half an hour later, one could hear a high-pitched scream coming from Balimund's blacksmithing.  
“You said you would provide—then provide!” A little Breton could be seen flailing her arm to point toward a set of steel armour carefully laid over the workbench.  
“Don't be a stubborn ninny!” the much taller, masked man could be heard hissing through his teeth. “Price-wise, the ebony armour costs less and offers more protection.”   
Balimund was nowhere to be seen. The moment he smelled trouble he dumped the customers on his poor assistant Asbjorn, who did not know what to do but meekly wait in a corner.  
“No discussions, Miraak. It is the Radiant Raiment model or nothing!”   
The masked figure visibly bristled in front of such a sharp ultimatum, and from his stiffened posture it seemed that he was going to reply with something equally nasty until he had a last moment change of mind, and brusquely dropped his gold pouch in the counter in front of a very relieved Asbjorn. He was finally going to get rid of them, in just a matter of minutes, after that annoying Breton finished changing her outfit and left their shop.  
  
To say that Miraak was irked after the payment was an understatement. He kept seething alone, a few feet from her, grumbling softly to himself, but not quietly or far enough from her ears. “... Even a courtesan is less expensive! ”   
“What did you say?” she squawked, indignant, but he had the decency to keep quiet, so she graciously let it go, especially because she was going to ask for more gold.   
“And what for?” he asked, outraged, but she remained impassive.   
“Ladies toiletries, so cough it up,” she said, showing him her empty palm.   
  
She hummed, satisfied, as she walked alone towards Elgrim's Elixirs. If there was one thing she learnt fast at the Bruma orphanage, it was that no man had enough guts or interest to discuss that fascinating topic, ever. Not even that miser of a pot-bellied caregiver had ever questioned about why her monthly visit came so conveniently fast, especially when the confectioner baked a new cake recipe.  
  
Luckily, it wasn't the old grumpy Elgrim attending the counter, but a new young woman, that at first sight seemed quite a nice lady, thus facilitating her little plan. Or so she thought.  
  
“Well,” she cleared her throat, pulling off her best nonchalant look, “I need some soaps, a hair lotion, a dragon tongue perfume, tampons, some health and stamina potions,” but then her voice faltered, “and also something to prevent pregnancy.” She muttered the last part too swiftly, stumbling on the word, like she was confessing some big state secret to an enemy spy. She internally groaned—nonchalance, yes.  
  
Ingun Black-Briar just sighed, visibly rolling her eyes, and abruptly moved toward a drawer to get some products. “Great. Another virgin. Alright then.”   
“What? I...! No!” She cringed at her own squeaking, her cheeks burning up in distress. This was getting more and more embarrassing by the minute. “I just need some further information, that's all!” she managed to rasp, outraged, but Ingun did not seem persuaded or impressed at all.   
  
“Those from the fields always say that. Don't worry, dearie. That's why I am here,” she commented while placing a lot of coloured bottles of different sizes in the counter. “There's nothing to be ashamed of. People... wait, for some reason. Even at your age.” It was more like she was following a rehearsed script composed by Elgrim than showing actual conviction or real sympathy.   
“Now listen well, because I hate repeating it all the time,” she went on, business-like, any trace of fake understanding completely gone. “We have the douches,” and she pointed to some white bottles to the left, “the contraceptives,” those were orange, “and then the abortifacients.” They were all purple, thus, some kind of poison.   
“All that stuff you heard from your peers,” Ingun continued with scorn, “amulets, prayers, weird rituals with a chicken on your head—well, they are wrong. Complete bollocks.” She couldn't help but laugh at the image, and Ingun nodded solemnly. “Yes. There are still idiots that believe it works, and then run here to buy a last minute remedy,” she remarked, slightly shaking a purple bottle.   
“So use the white an hour before intercourse and drink the orange each morning before breakfast. The purple only in case the menses skip a month.” The redhead just nodded, as she watched Ingun put all the potions she mentioned in a small bag. “That's it, you’re on sure ground for just three hundred gold. Ah yes, unless your stud uses magicka.”   
That made her frown, nonplussed.  
“Eh? And what has that to do with anything?”  
“Everybody knows that magicka tampers with the final effects. Where do you live, girl?” Her face must have been expressive enough, because Ingun thought wiser to clarify after a little snort of impatience. “Each ingredient needs to be perfectly balanced to fit each magicka signature. In that case I will need a blood sample for testing and a week.”   
Well, that explained why all mages studied Alchemy. Damn, that complicated things. She too had developed a bit of magicka.  
“So there is no solution at all?” she asked, hopeful. Just the idea of opening an Alchemy book or dissecting Skeever tails made her stomach churn.   
“Well, yes...” Ingun's frown did not promise much though. “As poisons can't be too virulent... There's what I call the 'granny way,' but... it's a last resort, a bit unorthodox, and you should go to Haelga for that.”   
  
From the way Ingun fidgeted, it was clear that the topic was a delicate one, and that it was better to leave it untouched, but she had always been too curious for her own good. “What do you mean?”  
This time it was the older woman that whispered in a conspiratorial way, after a resigned sigh. “An embalming needle, lots of linen strips, and mead, for the pain.”   
  
The blood drained from her face as she flinched back like she’d been burned, but Ingun forcefully grabbed one of her arms and pulled her even nearer to the counter. “Don't tell Maramal anything about that! Is that clear?” she hissed, very worried, already regretting her little disclosure. “He is already unbearable at the Inn with his campaign against alcohol. What Haelga does has saved many girls from being repudiated by their village, so keep your mouth shut!”   
She couldn't do anything, but nod dumbly and leave the shop quietly with her purchases, still unsettled by the little chat. She would have never imagined that stopping an unwanted pregnancy could be so brutal. She really had believed that one could just buy a potion for everything.  
  
She did not have the chance to further ponder on it, because her attention was quickly caught by a familiar scoundrel passing nearby. “You!” she hissed, furious. Brynjolf had the decency to look slightly abashed, but did not stop his fast march towards a plain, rusted door.   
“I'd like to chat with you, but I prefer to find some shelter and fast.” He looked at her for a moment and added with a strange tone, without shutting the door. “I'm sorry, gal. You have potential. I would invite you to the Ragged Flagon, if not for your man.”  
  
She blinked, confused, as she walked around the planks. What was that rogue prattling on about, and was he talking about Miraak? She shook her head. That lousy thief was surely mixing her up with someone else, or just messing around again. It was only after she climbed the stairs and stepped in the marketplace that Brynjolf's choice to hide in the Ratway tunnels finally made sense.   
  
The pale, irregularly tiled floor of the little square was oozing with dark, viscous blood, and mutilated corpses were abandoned there, exposed to the humid weather. She observed their soiled uniforms. They were all Riften soldiers but for one armoured civilian. Even if she was used to the ruthless violence of battlefields, she couldn't refrain from slightly gasping at the gruesome sight of half-carbonized bodies and entrails scattered around. Riften was supposed to be a safe place—not even a dragon attack killed so many men at once, and with such ferocity. She unsheathed her sword, ready for any sudden assault. It was a very bad sign how no one dared to come out to clean the place or even cover the corpses.   
  
She spotted Miraak far away, on a secondary street, and ran to him. “What happened?” she cried, alarmed, but he remained silent and handed a crumpled, bloodied note to her.  
  
“As instructed, you are to eliminate Bree by any means necessary. The Black Sacrament has been performed - somebody wants this poor fool dead. We've already received payment for the contract. Failure is not an option. - Astrid”  
  
“How,” she uttered, flabbergasted. “How is it possible? I've just been in Nirn for less than a week.” She raised her gaze from the letter and stared at his robe, which was stained with some curdled blood. So he had been fighting too. “How many were they?” From the number of fallen soldiers, it should have been at least a group of fifteen hired assassins. Whoever wanted her dead had to be filthy rich.  
  
“We must go,” he said in a deadpan tone, gently pulling her wrist towards the main gate. The streets were completely deserted, and the only living being around, a beggar huddled in a corner, screamed in fright and ran away the moment they crossed her sight. That alone gave her a really bad feeling.  
“Miraak,” she murmured this time with slight dread “What happened?” They were marching on the main road, already out of the city.  
  
“Their covert agent tried an ambush and I killed him with one blow,” he recounted with a chilling, flat tone. “The guards, however, mistook me for the assaulter. He was camouflaged in civilian clothing.”  
She closed her eyes to digest what she didn't want to suspect. That carnage, it had been him.  
“You could have used Gol-Hah,” she uttered dismayed. “You could have paralysed them!” Her shrilly tone was now full of reproach.  
“Those swine deserved to die!” he suddenly shouted with a savage rancour that bewildered her. “You did not see,” he added with an eerie calm, “the mangled mess they left on your back.”  
  
It was then that she realized, for the first time, and with full force, how her rash, careless actions directly influenced his meticulously premeditated ones. She stared with wide eyes at the inexpressive profile of his mask as they proceeded in uncomfortable silence.  
  
Miraak was a gigantic, walking danger. A menace that could be unleashed at any moment with the same havoc of an unstoppable cyclone. Like a deceptive pillar of recurring, controlled motion that, in truth, overwhelmed everything in or near its unpredictable path with unchained and destructive force.  
  
She had managed, though, in some unfathomable way, to remain safely trapped inside the lulling quietness of its eye. Nobody had ever crossed a cyclone and remained unscathed, and yet there she was, currently inside one, with the untapped possibility of conditioning its course.   
  
She blinked at the astonishing thought. It was, like everything that concerned him, too overwhelming to digest at once. They walked side by side until dusk, without uttering a single word. By then, the amulet was just a forgotten memory.


	13. Tempest - Loredas, 24th, Tibedetha Day

 

** 13. **

** (Kest) **

 

 **\- Loredas, 24th of Mid Year: Tibedetha -**  
  
The entrance door creaked, but the young woman sitting in front of the hearth fire did not tear her stare away from the steamy mug in her hand. Only one person had a duplicate key of _Breezehome_ , and cared enough to brave the raging storm outside.  
  
“I thought to bring you some fresh fruit, my Thane.” A delicate, yet decisive voice reached her ears from the doorstep, and so a faint, dour smile curved her lips.

“You don't have to call me that anymore, Lydia.” The older woman just laid the basket on the small table in the corner, and then turned to face her sombrely.

“I still have to repay you in some way.” Chagrin still coursed strong in her reminder, no matter how much time had already passed.  
  
“We've already been through that, it was not your fault,” the redhead uttered wearily, her gaze lost into the opaque reflections of her drink. “I know very well what it means to be manipulated,” she murmured softly, almost imperceptible.  
  
Lydia's sharp eyes immediately noticed the cursed, thick Black Book on the floor, near the side of Bree's chair, and so she rushed to sit next to her, softly squeezing the hand resting on her lap. “Please, I beg of you, lock it away, stop reading it. It is not healthy.”  
  
The younger woman slightly shook her head. “No. I must not forget.” Her gloomy whisper acquired that familiar sharp edge, always present when they touched that topic. “Not even for a moment.” A foreign coldness that Lydia still found hard to believe came from her. “What he has done,” she then added, almost as an afterthought. Lydia's tense lips became even more drawn. That fiend's lingering poison coursed more deeply than one could notice at first sight. Her hunch had been right, it had been a wise decision to stop at _Breezehome_ and check on her. It was the eve of that day, the night when her naive friend had made a misjudgement she was still regretting and paying for.  
  
“I can still remember all so clearly, as if it were yesterday,” she added softly, before losing herself again in her thoughts.  
  
Miraak had given her no warning, nor had asked for her opinion at all, and just that should have been grating enough to bark something nasty at him.  
  
“Stay behind,” he had dared to order, abruptly halting her march with a outstretched arm in front of her chest, while he swiftly extinguished the life detection spell dispersing from his hand. He had not even given her any explanation, nor any chance to question his decision. That alone would have once been a sufficient reason to get furious at him.  
  
“ _Mul-Qah-Div!”_ His shout then broke the eerie silence of the twilight. He unsheathed his Daedric sword and charged to an unknown location on the far side of the road, towards Cragslane Cavern.  
  
“What...?” She instead just blinked, bewildered, staring at his distancing shape. “Wait!” He left her no choice but to run after him, puzzled and quite worried, instead of the righteous fury that should have been in its place. He was always leaving her in that state, guessing around in the dark like a fool. When she finally spotted him, though, he had already engaged in fighting four bandits, and killed two.  
  
She just sighed and stood there, not even resting her hand on the hilt of her sheathed sword, because from what she could see, there was really no need. Miraak had already plunged his blade straight into the stomach of another bandit with his usual lethal precision, and easily turned to parry a predictable attack behind his back, while dodging a slash to his side. She crossed her arms, impatiently waiting for him to deliver the final strikes.  
  
It should have been a matter of seconds. The technique of those three was terribly unpolished, and their offensive stances left too many easy openings to exploit, and yet Miraak was still parrying and dodging their lunges, purposely postponing the inevitable.

She frowned, even more confused, and observed for a brief moment unknowingly entranced by how easily he kept toying with them, gracefully moving aside from their lethal blows. She bit her lip, unable to stop her growing fidgeting. What in Oblivion was he waiting for, to finally get that Orc's two-handed mace smashed in his head?  
  
“Miraak, cut it out!” she screeched, her mounting distress clearly audible. Couldn't he see how foolhardy and dangerous his stupid game was? Just one slight distraction on his part, and he could easily get stabbed in the abdomen by those Khajiit's swirling daggers! However, instead of quitting it, that cocky idiot just laughed loudly and continued with his stupid stunt even more recklessly than before. She gritted her teeth. From the way he closely stepped around those bandits, she was well aware of what that idiot had in mind. He was trying to lure them into accidentally hitting their companions to death. When he barely avoided a jab, however, just a brush away from his chest, the unexpected jolt of fright had been too vicious, and her heart just skipped a beat. It did not matter anymore then that he could heal himself or that he was clearly stronger than them, she decided to put an end to that ridiculous farce.  
  
The very moment she unsheathed her swords, though, Miraak abruptly charged forward, as if on cue, and slew them all in three swift sequential lunges. He must have mistaken her dumbfounded expression for awe, because he pranced towards her with such self-assured demeanour that should have irked her to no end, or at least produced a malicious jab out of her spiteful mouth. Instead she just stood there arms folded, throwing at him one of her most cross glares like a reproachful old spouse, as he stopped just few inches from her side.  
  
“Did you enjoy the show, Dragonborn?” he insinuated smugly, slightly inclining his head, so that his low, teasing purr could resound even clearer next to her ear. He purposely brushed her arm before moving forward, to settle in the cleared bandit camp.  
  
A long time ago, that sudden flush that burned up her face would have been of pure rage. That arrogant imbecile! So he had staged all of that silly travesty just to show off in front of her. Her past self would have taken it as another of his countless, shameless provocations, and then proudly raised to the challenge. This time, however, it just intensified the unwelcome, out of place warmness in her cheeks.  
  
When, she wondered slightly frightened, when had all of those annoying defects, like his unbearable conceitedness or his bothersome domineering attitude, started to become so endearing? Or even worse, charming. She cringed at the inescapable admission. There was no way to dance around it, she truly was in trouble this time. She had it bad. Terrifyingly bad. She shook her head slightly and waited for the blush to recede, so that she could finally join him in the camp with some dignified composure. It had deteriorated, even more than she could have ever imagined. The worst part, though, was that Miraak seemed to be aware of it too, in some way.  
  
Her besotted daze, however, was washed away the very moment he carelessly threw a shock spell against one of the fresh corpses to incinerate it. That simple act had the same impact of a sudden cold, pouring rain during a winter night, bringing back all the depressing mulling she had done during their quiet trip.  
  
He had carbonized the limbs of so many innocent soldiers with that same flicker of magicka, without any kind of scruples. Men that were just doing what was their duty, protect their home and earning a daily pay to feed their families and children. Widows that were now grieving, suddenly lost, bereft of any support, and orphans that would soon be dropped in some kind of institution without any concern, just like she had been once.

Just the idea alone formed a knot in her throat. What he had done was just horrible, unjustifiable. And yet... Her traitorous heart fluttered wildly at the mere thought of why he had done it. Perhaps it would not have happened anymore, after all he had been attacked first. It had been mainly self-defence. However, he was strong enough, he could have just incapacitated them. They were so many though. And then it was because she had made one of her messes, as usual. If she had just stayed out of trouble... And then if she explained to him why it bothered her so much, he would surely refrain from doing that again. Maybe she could just let it go for once... No. Absolutely not. No matter how many plausible justifications she could find, there was only one right course of action to follow.  
  
“We are going back to Riften.”  
  
Despite the determined posture and the grim frown she put up, her voice wavered, and the Dwarven sword pointed straight to his chest slightly trembled. Miraak just snorted and moved the blade away with a soft push of his fingers.  
  
“Really, Bree?” His low, mocking tone was completely unapologetic. “You do not even sound convincing to yourself.” He approached her, until they were again just few inches away from each other. “And pray tell…” He was calm, completely at ease, even though her sword lingered just inches from his side. “What should I do there? Pay a fee? Let them cut my throat?” His voice lowered to an intimate, velvety murmur. “Do you really want them to do that to me?” His hand slowly caressed her forearm, until it rested over the grip that held the sword. The hilt slowly slipped from her loosened grasp and fell to the ground.  
  
“N-No, but...” she whispered, her little resolve completely vanished. “I broke the law. They were within their right!” His hand slightly tightened around hers.

“Is that so?” he continued in that slow, persuasive cadence of his, his mask hovering next to her cheek. “Do you really consider that amount of abuse fitting for such petty crime? Mm?” His soft, smooth murmur was entrancing enough to mix up again all of her already tangled feelings.

“But... There was no need to react so...” A statement that should have been shouted with righteous vehemence, came out instead shy and breathy. “Why... Why did you do that?” Her voice shook with trepidation. She indeed was truly, completely smitten. Beyond help.

“You already know why.” His hoarse, forceful whisper came out strangled. “I...” He abruptly pulled away and walked agitated few feet far from her, like he was trying to collect himself. His fists were tightly clenched when he turned to face her again. “Hermaeus Mora is laughing at us, you know!” he suddenly spat, full of festered resentment. He then sat on a wooden stool near the fire, returning to that same contemplative, brooding mood he had kept on for the whole travel.  
  
The flames crackled undisturbed for several more minutes, until he resumed again with more venom, stressing each word. “Don't you see, foolish girl? This is why he let us go. This is exactly what he wants. What he had planned from the very beginning!”  
  
She sank her hands in her dishevelled mane in exasperation. She knew what was coming next, he was going to rant again about fate, and she had already heard enough about that in Apocrypha to last for a lifetime. Sithis and damnation! She couldn't put up with that annoyance anymore, especially now, when it was messing with her new, revised goals.  
  
“It is you instead!” She suddenly shouted, marching angrily towards him. “Blind like a Moth Priest, you still don't get it, not at all!” She gave him no chance to retort her statement, but straddled him and furiously shook the hem of his collar with both hands, as if that could, in some way, push inside his skull some grain of common sense.

“You can't live second guessing their moves all the time!” she screamed, unable to hold back her temper. “In that way you are nonetheless letting them influence your decisions! And isn't that another, subtler form of control? Isn't it then better to just do what suits you in the moment? Who cares if it follows some god's supposed plan, as long as it makes you happy! What really counts in the end is just what you want! That's all that matters to me!”  
  
She stopped to catch her breath, fully aware that it was, however, too late. She had mistakenly revealed too much.  
  
“I...” That single word drowned in his throat, dying with the rest of an unformed rebuttal. For once, her violent declaration had left him speechless. That small slip of tongue was of little consequence though. It had to happen sooner or later, even if she was not fully ready. She would follow her own advice then, and just ride the moment. Miraak, however...  
  
“ _...In order to subdue this chaotic world, to set things right...”_  
  
She remembered too well all those snippets from his monologues, tipping her off about the true depth of his delusions. Trying to understand the encompassing designs of Aedra and Daedra, that was the main downfall of all mages and priests. Too smart and presumptuous for their own good, they inevitably lost themselves in the divine chaos, forgetting to fully live their transient time, like him. And unfortunately for her, Miraak was both at the same time.  
  
She tried to peek for some clue from the slits of the mask, but he tilted his chin downward, a clear sign that he was still dwelling on what she had said. However, he hissed with a strangled, uncharacteristic inflection, as if it was costing him every effort to talk to her. “He fancies himself to be the Gardener of Men.”  
  
The grip on his collar abruptly loosened and her chest slackened back in shock. There was a reason she had never heard that inflection from him. It was shame. She stared astonished at him, entranced by the flickering reflections in his golden mask. It was crystal clear now, why he thrashed around so violently against any inkling of Hermaeus Mora's manipulation.

She swallowed uneasily. Gardener, such a poetic way to sugarcoat its true meaning. It must have been tearing his pride apart. She sighed. So all of his unexplained, random moments of evasiveness had little to do with her then. The implications tasted bitter on her palate, though. They did not favour her plans at all.  
  
“When did you come to that conclusion?” She finally dared to ask, in a cracked murmur.

“From the very moment he let us free.” His sombre tone, a pale shadow of his previous assertiveness, matched her soft one.

“But you've always suspected.”

“Yes.”

“Since when?” She dreaded the answer, but she needed to confirm her hunch.

“From the beginning.”  
  
She pinched the bridge of her nose and shut her eyes. That explained his baffling breakdown in Apocrypha. The realization that he managed to keep all of that bottled up, so well hidden from her and for such a long time, was just jarring. And nonetheless he had continued to seek comfort from her. She sighed, to think that she really wanted such a complicated mess. “But in Apocrypha it was Akatosh you always kept mentioning. There's more, right?”  
  
His silence, the very fact that he did not deny her assumption, spoke volumes. Even then, after all they had been sharing, he was still retaining part of his thoughts. She pushed his shoulders harder and gnashed, inflamed. “Tell me!”  
  
A hoarse, wounded, grudging growl leaked out from his mask. “I wondered so many times, why he allowed me to stray from his design.”

“Go on,” she pressed.

“I did not stray at all. I was a last resort plan, in case you failed. Or became a threat.”

She relaxed her hold, the implications dancing wildly in her head. From that point of view, it all made more sense. She had always been sure that Akatosh despised Alduin for his mendacity, too. He first claimed to be a god, then had the audacity to spread rumours of being an aspect of the very father himself. If it was true, why then would Akatosh create a _dovahkiin_? To destroy himself? No, Akatosh had planned everything to punish his arrogant son and, as the god of time, he very well knew that Alduin would jump through time.  
  
Miraak had never been needed in his own era. Kynareth had intervened then, through Paarthurnax. So he had instead been parked in Apocrypha, to refine his knowledge as a potential fill-in.  
  
“Do you really believe to be... Believe so?” She was at first going to blurt out 'replacement', but did not dare to throw salt in a suppurated wound. She could not hide her consternation, though, even if she knew how much he hated to be pitied. If Miraak was right, the way he was still being used was just plain cruel.  
  
He did not nod, nor add anything more, but just remained still, hiding his thoughts behind that bothersome mask. She stared at it, irked. Always in the damn way. No, she decided, there was no other possible way. She had to dive now to the bottom, before he sealed his thoughts again, but her guts would not last, if he kept wearing it.  
  
With a gentleness completely opposite to her previous outburst, she unclasped the hidden clips that kept the mask attached to the hood, and then put it aside.

He let her. He was too lost in his own moping to protest, but he was still not crossing her gaze. His stare was unfocused at some far away spot, and that was not good. She was going to say it only once, as concession went against everything one side of her dragon soul stood for. The other side instead roared, ready to strike. Whatever a _dovah_ wanted, a _dovah_ took, no matter the means. So she cupped his face and readied herself. It had to be done.  
  
“Do you know why I fully embraced Akatosh's path?”  
  
That caught his full attention, his black eyes now sharply pinned on her own. He had never remarked about it out loud, but he had never understood how someone so hot-headed could remain so passive in front of the ruthless machinations of the gods. It took her a great amount of will to keep up with his intense stare, and maintain a steady voice.  
  
“Because it has given me everything I could ask for. Recognition, power, fame.” She could see from the tightening of his eyes that he was taking her admission in the wrong way, as a haughty criticism at his perceived failures, and so she added hastily, before he could utter anything spiteful, “You. And maybe in the future also a... Family.”  
  
In the end she faltered, all assertiveness lost after whispering such a simple word. Revealing her innermost, secret desire like that, without any shield, was taking more courage than she would have ever imagined. More than raising for the first time a sword against Mirmulnir, or entering Sovngarde to face the World Eater. He parted his lips to say something, but she stopped him, putting a hand over his mouth, and pressed on, before she got cold feet, and lowered her chin to hide her nervousness.  
  
“Now, the important question is...” And part of the dragon trembled, because Miraak was more than _dovah_ , he was _dovahkiin_ , and those that preserved intact their _sil_ did not lay a custom-made weapon in the hands of a cunning _mun_. The other part instead roared and nose-dived, because only those with true _ahkrin_ were worthy of true _krongrah_. “Do you want to follow that path? Because I can't... If you don't.”

She did not dare to rise her head and see his expression, her courage had vanished. Now he had the choice to decide he so longed for.  


The silence was deafening, but she waited nonetheless.  


She gritted her teeth. The bastard was keeping her on her toes, how dare he. To think she was taking all the brunt, as usual.  
  
“Don't be a damn coward! Grow some balls, for Azura!” She screeched in his face. And then, to her chagrin, she noticed. “Oh.” He held her wrist and moved her hand away from his mouth.

“I cannot answer if you don't let me.” Not his expression, nor his deadpan voice gave anything away, he just looked pensively at her. At least he did not sound offended. Divines, how idiotic. She closed her eyes and stifled a groan. She must have been more nervous than she believed, to be so absent-minded. She preferred fighting dragons to this ten times over.  
  
He grabbed her hands to calm them down. She hadn't noticed that she was fiddling with the hem of his robe. A small smile graced his lips, his gaze unusually soft, as if he had caught the real intention behind her little ploy. However, there was a strange tinge of sadness behind that softness that worried her even more.  
  
“We will have to find a way to cut all affiliations with Hermaeus Mora, first,” he murmured quietly. “Apocrypha is not a proper place to raise children.” And then her indignant gasp tore a large, amused smirk from him, as she blushed in embarrassment and exasperation. One day she was going to choke him for real.

“Can't you just say a simple yes for once in your bloody life?” Her high pitched voice, no matter her irritation, still trembled. He had the audacity to laugh.

“No. Or should I say yes?”

“Akatosh only knows why I ever bother with you!”

“Ah, such a short memory span. You have just said it, for a _family._ ” Not even a minute and he was already rubbing it in! Sithis and damnation, the things she did to win. Now he was going to forever bring that up too, at every occasion. She gritted her teeth again. It took all of her self-restraint to not punch that crooked, cocky grin of his.

And then a very interesting deduction occurred to her, and she smiled cheekily in return. “So, you do really think we are fated by the gods!” she squeaked in delight, hardly holding back her laugh. 

He frowned in a vain tentative of appearing forbidding, but he could not stop a pale rosy tint from colouring his sharp cheekbones.

“Of course, of all the things I tell you, you have to fixate on that,” he gritted, clearly embarrassed, muttering more to himself than really talking to her. Her smile widened in an insolent grin. The rush of victory left her too giddy to be even a bit considerate. That moment was too satisfying to let it finish soon, so she had to quickly poke for more.

“Well, it is not my fault if my memory is so awesome and crafty.”  


“Crafty?” He chuckled darkly, a bass huskiness seeping in, and he rested the cold tip of his nose on the bare skin behind her ear. “Do not ever presume for a moment that I do not catch those little, clumsy machinations of yours.” His breath was steaming though, and she shuddered. “To accomplish that,” he seared her skin with a deliberate slow kiss, “you need to improve your speech skills first.”  
  
The breeze of the night tickled the damp spot he left exposed, his lips now inches from hers, teasing her with an indolent, self-assured smirk. She languidly moistened her lips, her cheeks already flushed, and slightly frowned. “So now, you think to have the upper hand.”  
  
He hushed her, holding her face to gently pry her lips with his tongue, enticing their parting. A moan escaped from her throat as he deepened the kiss, before tantalizingly shirking away. “I do,” he rumbled hoarsely, satisfied of her erratic intakes of air.

“You don't,” she managed to rasp out. He arched an eyebrow sceptically, so she went on. “I don't need to refine my speech at all. You see,” she whispered sultry, but with a naughty gleam in her eyes that warned him to be wary, “I already know what to say to make you do everything I want.” She stressed those last three words just to irk him more, while caressing the line of his jaw.

He tightened his lips to stifle a chuckle, as his eyes glinted in challenge. “Really,” he drawled wryly. “Well then, prove it.”

A thrill coursed through her veins, as he willingly swallowed hook, line and sinker. It was so obviously a provocation, but of course he wouldn't back off. She licked her lips deviously, already foretasting the raw shock that he would not be able to hide in time, and tightly hugged his neck, resting her chin on his shoulder so that she could whisper directly in his ear. Well, he had asked for it. She was going to drag him down, into the same abyss of craziness she was drowning in, no matter which shameless wile, as he liked to call them, she had to resort to.  
  
“I want your thick sword buried inside my little tight sheath,” she breathed hotly. “I want you to make me beg for more, all night long. And I want to play all those little dark fantasies I know you have.” She couldn't refrain from sniggering evilly at his shocked intake of breath. She could savour his slight shiver, from the way her body was pressed against his, but it was not enough. She had to push even further, now that he was out of his depths, or he would start to retaliate too soon.  
  
“It excites you, doesn't it?” She egged him on, renewing her sultriness with a touch of pure wantonness. “To hear the little _dovahdin_ say such dirty, lewd things!” No, she would have never shown so much bravado, if there was even the slightest doubt of being rejected. And then, to his helpless dismay, she got even more audacious, when her hand slipped down to rest on an unmistakable bulge.  
  
“Always the lecherous, horny, old man.” A giddy giggle escaped when he flinched, unwillingly showing how much she could easily affect him, and so she slightly brushed her lips against his earlobe to tease him more. “So choose, _Diist Dovahkiin_ ,” she added, relentless, her breathy whisper rich of restrained laugh. “Who will I be tonight? The helpless maiden or the hungry _dovah_?” Yes, that was the final strike. Now she only had to enjoy the satisfying results.  
  
“You...” He was so shaken that he was not even trying to mask the strain in his cracked voice. “The same subtlety...” He hissed through clenched teeth. She felt how he hid his face in the curve of her neck, and she revelled in it, resting a hand on the back of his head. “...Of a drove of mammoths!” He grasped her waist tightly, squeezing her hips as if he was torn on what to do: Push her off his lap for her indecent impertinence, or press her against his loins even harder. In the end she decided for him, crossing her legs and arms behind his back. “ _Kyne, hiif zey...”_ His muffled, almost imperceptible swearing sounded more like a hoarse, exasperated whine, after she rubbed her hips against his. Much later, she would have dared to claim it was just a bit of persuasion. Meanwhile, though, she just persisted even more shamelessly, chuckling at his discomfort, while slipping off both of her gloves.  
  
“I'm waiting,” she continued to whisper unabashedly, as her bare fingers proceeded to unhook one by one the hidden clasps of his collar, “or should I choose for you?” One hand slithered under the loosened hem, caressing the tense muscles under his jaw.  
  
“You think to be so smart,” he tried to hiss and recompose himself in some way. “To have me figured out.” She was smothering his neck with kisses though. “You know nothing!” It was supposed to be a reproachful bark, but instead died to a hoarse, guttural groan.

“Then tell me,” she managed to prompt amidst her fervent assault, nothing stopping her wandering hands from pulling the fastenings of his robes.

“It will be Mora's.” Despite his distress, he couldn't refrain some huskiness from seeping out, not when her palms slowly stroked his bare chest, in a slow and deliberately promiscuous motion.

“It won't,” she answered back eagerly, as she left a trail of sloppy, little love bites around his collarbone, while one of her hands started to fight with the unfamiliar clasps of her new armour. “As long as it is conceived in Nirn.” And then threw at him a feral, cheeky grin that was not reassuring at all. 

Miraak's slightly glazed eyes visibly widened, like a cornered prey after sensing some hidden danger. “You... researched,” he simply uttered dismayed, through his short intakes of breath.  
  
Yes, the very fact that she spent time and energy to investigate about the matter was an extraordinary event, and uncharacteristically sneaky to boot. He was finally witnessing with his own eyes the true depths of her pig-headedness, an unshakable determination that unfailingly surged when she truly wanted to clutch her claws onto something. She just nodded, flashing another, wider mischievous smile, as she almost tore the last fastening.  
  
“Since when?” he rumbled accusingly, but she just snickered unaffected. His nonplussed and flushed face was not even a tiny little bit as intimidating as he hoped it would be.

“Since I read the Mara pamphlets. Surprise!” She even had the audacity to chirp that with no self-consciousness.  
  
What was supposed to be a snort came out as a gravelly, exasperated groan. It had been so obvious, he should have seen it coming from miles away, from all those strange, silly, unrelated topics she had started to discuss with him in Apocrypha, with no apparent reason. For the sake of curiosity, she had said. She was just getting bored, she had been complaining about that, so why not indulging her a little? And with all her constant chatting about absurd trivialities, he had ended up just believing it. So she had been plotting and scheming, if her blunt nagging on certain topics could be called so, for a long time then.   
  
“Well,” she went on, oblivious or just uncaring of his astonishment, “I believed it had to wait at least a few centuries, seeing the pace of your research, so... It was just a little fancy, you see. A possibility. But now that we are here, I have pondered...” Her chest armour finally dropped with a loud clang on the ground, and so she encircled her arms around his torso, and bent to whisper sultrily in his ear, pressing her soft breasts against his chest for another assault.  
  
“You said you would have provided for anything I would ever need...” She stressed the last word meaningfully, daring to twist his gallant offer for her own benefit. “Did you lie?” He could not resent her taunt, though. It was devoid of any malice, even when she slowly pressed her whole weight against his loins, slightly pushing forward her hips.  
  
“No,” his breath was shaky, “of course not.” They both knew he was but a step away from caving in to any of her outlandish whims.

“Then provide.” Her breathy, unsubtle prodding sounded even more compelling thanks to those tempting, tiny hands that massaged his shoulder blades and teased his spine with their delicate fingertips. He closed his eyes, stifling a shudder, and she licked her lips. Yes, he was finally going to give in.  
  
“The Dark Brotherhood,” he abruptly rasped in a low grunt, a clear attempt to distract himself from her coarse, but very effective seduction. “When were you thinking about telling me?” It was almost endearing how he kept forcing his voice to sound reproachful. It was not working though, not when she gently laid her hands on his jaw to tip his head, and slightly bent it nearer.  
  
“They are always after me,” she whispered with unmasked affection, her lips lingering over his, “for some reason.” And left on them a tantalizing peck full of promises. “I just... forgot.” She tilted her head to deepen her next kiss, but he roughly grabbed her wrists.

“Always the reckless fool! I will have to stay on guard, then,” he growled harshly. “I can't protect you if...” He briefly stopped to fumble for an appropriate term. “... I am distracted,” he managed to choke out. How ironic it was, him behaving like a responsible, self-restrained prude, just when she was doing her best to slowly wrap him in her warm ensnarement. She was getting tired of his stubborn resistance, though. Yes, in the beginning it had given her the thrill of a safe victory, but now it was getting just irritating.

“I don't need your protection now, you stupid idiot!” she abruptly screamed as she roughly shook his shoulders. She had always been able to keep those pesky assassins at bay before, and besides, that was beyond the point. “Don't play the fool! You know exactly what I want!” Any trace of her previous, sultry coddling was swept away by the high screech of her temper tantrum. “So give it to me, now!”  
  
She had never seen Miraak's face blanch, nor his eyes widen like that, staring at her like he was for the first time truly seeing her true character. But he recomposed himself as fast as his shocked flinch. A blank, impenetrable expression returned to cover his inner thoughts like a thick veil.   
  
“Very well.” His tone suddenly reacquired his previous assertiveness, even though it was still unreadable, like his guarded gaze. “If that is what you truly wish...” She should have known, that only a direct, pushy demand would have gotten the desired effect from him. However, the smooth, deep quality of his voice was tainted by a strange touch of weary resignation, like her outburst had finally cracked some kind of frayed resolution he had been clinging on until then. She just forgot about it though, and shivered with a strange, faint sense of foreboding, when she saw the raw intensity in his calculating gaze, as he dampened his lips. He pulled her away from his lap, forcing her to stand up. Her fiery protest doused on her tongue, though, when his fingers slowly pulled down the strings of her modest undergarment, until it fell at her feet.  
  
“Touch yourself.” He deliberately pronounced those words slowly, with a cold, challenging edge, as his hands slowly caressed the contours of her large, soft hips. His piercing gaze roamed around the plump curves of her exposed body with such raw, undisguised voracity, that she felt the sudden, inexplicable urge to shield her breasts from his view.

“What?” she managed to squeak out, as she instinctively snuggled her arms around her chest, her bafflement badly masked. He remained impassive instead, and just tutted in mild mockery, as he grasped her wrists and pried them away from her breasts.

“You are not deaf, my dear. I said, touch yourself.” It wasn't just the uncharacteristic direct rawness of his unexpected request, or the scorching intensity of his shameless perusal. There was also a deep, undefined undercurrent she had never sensed before and could not recognize, behind the richness of his lustful tone, that made her strangely uneasy.  
  
“I...” Her next words drowned in the sea of her fumbled, racing thoughts, as she tried to contain her growing nervousness. What was happening to her? Just an instant ago, she had been perfectly in control and sure of what she was doing, but now her instincts would not stop prickling the back of her mind in warning. Something in the air had shifted, and she had no idea about what it was. He just chuckled derisively at her ill-concealed fidgeting, with the smug satisfaction of someone being proven right.  
  
“In the end…” He abruptly turned her over and pushed her down, to sit again on his lap. “No matter how brazenly the little _dovahdin_ acts,” his husky growl rumbled next to her ear, as his chin tilted down to rest on the curve of her shoulder, “she had but only bathed in the safest, warm surface.” An arm clasped tightly around her waist, trapping also her arms, and pushed her back even closer to his bare chest. “Never drowned in _mun_ raw, deepest _smoliin_.” The soft brushing of his lips on her cheek tempered the harshness of his low hiss, and distracted her from hearing the metallic clack of his loosened belt.

“It is time to remedy that, or else,” he added, as his knees slightly lifted her legs and parted them widely apart, “the little _dov_ will never learn to stay away from its deep end.” There was a different kind of threat darkening his words. She shuddered violently, and not just from the night breeze tickling her heaving breasts.

“We shouldn't... here,” she stuttered, self-conscious, trying to reason with him, when she felt one hand slowly slipping down, caressing her navel, “like this,” she looked around frantically, never having felt so exposed in such way before. “Anyone could see us!” For the first time, the small, dim fire of the camp seemed too bright and luminous to her eyes, and the wild, rich vegetation of the Rift not dense enough to properly hide their presence from unwanted stares.  
  
“Having second thoughts, now?” A mocking, warm whisper caressed her ear, as his large fingertips slid between her soaked nether lips. Her cheeks reddened from the pleasurable tingling of their lingering, slow strokes. “You said anything, remember?” And his knees spread her thighs even more, forcing her to slightly bend her head back on his shoulder.  
  
She tried to form a coherent reply, but only a gasped moan came out from her parted lips, when the sinking of his intrusive, large fingers forced her hips to buck against his pressing palm.  
  
“So is it this, then?” she finally managed to croak out, in a contradictory mixture of embarrassed distress, plain irritation, and twisted, hungry arousal. “Letting someone see me in this state?” She could have easily stopped that little perversion of his, his grasp around her waist was not that strong to prevent her from wiggling out and slapping him hard in the face. However, her own insatiable, brash curiosity was quickly outweighing her initial skittish uneasiness. It was the first time that Miraak willingly let his most dark and well hidden licentious side run unmasked, at least in front of her.  
  
“Oh, yes,” he grunted hoarsely with twisted appreciation, “let them all see.” However, it was only when she felt the tip of his hardness slip inside her folds that she finally caught what he was truly trying to accomplish. “How undone you become, when you get speared by my length.” The real reason he decided to finally give her a little peek at the rotten pit of his curbed lust. “How you writhe and clamp around it for more.” His husky hiss was harsh and feral. He was trying to scare her off.  
  
“And this, little _dovahdin_ , it's only a taste.” Even if he was deeply buried inside her, he was not thrusting though, not even moving an inch. “You will learn to not toy with a prey that can and _will_ overcome you.”  
  
His gloved fingers kept rubbing around her drenched and swollen little spot, while leaving her so deliciously overfilled without any of its relieving, craved friction, just on purpose. She bit her lip to stifle a frustrated whine, but he heard its feeble sob nonetheless, and slightly chuckled with vindictive satisfaction, while his other hand slithered upwards to fondle her breast. His scorching, dampened lips slowly descended from her jaw to the crook of her neck and parted to press a teasing, lingering bite. He was slowly driving her mad with raw need.  
  
Even in her dazed state though, the implication of his last admission did not escape her feverish mind, nor the glimpse of festered resentment emerging from his threat. After everything they had gone through together, that paranoid idiot was still doubtful. Suspicious. Afraid she was just taking advantage of what he perceived as one of his most debilitating weaknesses.  
  
“Why,” she murmured breathlessly, “why do you always think I'm fooling around?” Her hand delicately rested on his cheek and forced him to tilt his face towards hers, so that their foreheads would only be slightly apart.

“I'm not a fool. All of this is too good to be true.” It happened just in a fraction of a second, a blink of an eye, but she noticed it nonetheless, even if she had to bury her face in his neck to smother an irrepressible moan of pleasure when he unintentionally jerked his hips upwards. For a moment his voice had faltered with uncertainty. It was strange how she could relate to that primordial, persistent fear of being rejected, after someone had seen beyond the façade, straight at the most unappealing parts of the hidden self.

“What? That you have won?” To concede such validation, she was obviously too drunk, in that sea of dense, overwhelming craving. Not thinking clearly. And wasn't that exactly what he had always wanted, from the very beginning? It made no sense otherwise. Sparing her after her defeat. Remaining trapped in Apocrypha instead of devouring her soul. His persistent, calculated seduction. Looking for her in Riften. Enduring all of her rage fits and silly quirks. “Haven't I always been your little coveted prize?” She instinctively jerked her hips to slide around his length, but even if she tensed her legs, the tips of her feet could not reach the ground and push her up.  
  
“No, a prize is bestowed after proving oneself worthy.” His husky growl became erratic and softer, clearly affected by her admission and her helpless writhing against his lap. “You, my dear, are my spoils.” Such a crude, possessive claim, uttered just a brush away from her yearning, reddened lips, with that tinge of passionate affection. It made her already quivering body shake. Spoils, how fitting was that term. Miraak did not expect recognition for his good efforts, he just conquered, plundered and ravished what he desired, like he was doing now, and had been doing from the start, besieging her body and heart until they both crumbled down. What could she say about herself then, now that she willingly opened her gates and gladly welcomed his assaults?  
  
“Now show me.” His husky rumble tickled her ear with another delicate warm puff of moist air, and she shivered, lost in the sensation. His fingers quickened their motions around her aching, drenched mound, and small, sobbing whines escaped from her shaky breathing. “Prove how much you love this.” He spurred her on, repeatedly brushing her sensitized, aching core, as she moaned and wriggled against his chest, unable to buck against his still hardness. “How much you love me.” It was his faltering, warm breathing against her ear, and that rough, thick yearning, vibrating unrestrained from the recess of his hoarse voice, that finally lifted her towards that unreachable, yet so frustratingly near, craved peak of raw release, unleashing a burst of piercing, blind delight, that melted her body in overwhelming, strong waves of pleasurable relief.  
  
“Yes, like that.” His low, suffering hiss nonetheless cut through her dense veil of stupor, and she truly savoured for the first time, now that he was not plunging hard and fast inside her, how tightly her inner walls clutched and squeezed his trapped cock, over and over, at every new sharp hiccup of waning pleasure.  
  
Her trembling limbs, however, had no chance to submerge in the sweet tides of afterglow, when her intake of breath was suddenly interrupted from the impact of her back against the warm, grassy ground near the campfire. She did not have the time to blink, as Miraak was already hovering over her little frame, spreading her thighs around his torso, his whole length already buried inside her burning, slippery slit. His deep thrusts had no trace of gentleness. They were rough, sharpened by his bottled-up, licentious urges, but she could sense that he was still restraining a part of it, his nature yet unable to totally forgo control even for a brief time. Or perhaps, knowing his rooted, natural distrust, he still believed she would flee away if he let it all out.  
  
“Don't hold back,” she encouraged, her palms wandering under his robes, to encircle his bare back. She pushed him towards her, until his sweaty, reddened forehead was just inches away from brushing hers. “Just let it go.” She crossed her calves around his back, never severing her half-lidded eyes from his darkening, veiled gaze, as his pace became gradually faster and harsher. “I will embrace it all, I promise,” she whispered, after pressing her lips softly against his, and something warm, undefinable, flickered wild in the pitch blackness of his eyes.

“ _Mul-Qah-Div._ ” It was a broken murmur, uttered with little breath, but the force contained in those words vibrated strong enough to unlock and set free his Dragon Aspect. Never before had any of those vigorous, golden flames ever had a chance to brush any tiny part of her bare body. She quivered from the intense dizziness, as they quickly permeated into her skin at the slightest touch, filling her with an intoxicating and feverish, growing warmth. The same heady heat of a leaking Dragon Soul, on the verge of being released and devoured. She embraced him tighter, famished, like the nearness could quench the rampant craving that little taste had abruptly awakened.  
  
“Yes, let the _dovah_ unleashed, my _morwuld_!” she moaned inebriated in his ear, clutching his dark hair, as his nose pressed against her mane, and her body continued to imbibe the twirling, wild flames like parched soil.  
  
“Let it out, all that _mul_!” A deep, hoarse groan rumbled from over her shoulder, as his cock plunged relentlessly against her, with fast, irregular thrusts. “Yes, like that!” From the way his uneven, heavy breathing, let escape some deep, gravelly moans, she knew he was far gone too.   
  
“Show me, show me!” If she had been lucid, she would not have recognized the delirious high pitch of her raspy screams, nor the way she desperately clung to him. “How much you love this!” Her arms clasped even more tightly his torso. “How much you love me! Give me all! All!” His teeth sank in the crook of her neck, hard, and she instinctively tensed, paralysed. His golden aura abruptly flared, overwhelming, as his hips jerked uncontrollably, until his pulsing hardness twitched and swiftly sank again with a last deep, hard thrust.  
  
A deep, guttural roar seeped from his throat, and her nails clawed his back, leaving behind red, long, deep gashes. Her lips parted, the need of howling irresistible, but a wave of dense, irrepressible pleasure overtook her trembling, sweaty thighs, flooding fast throughout her drowning, entangled limbs, sweeping away even her voice. A familiar rush of liquid warmness diffused through her lower abdomen, as his back shook and his cock continued to jerk, squeezed inside her clamping, warm walls, with brief, erratic shoves, until his muscles suddenly lost all their strength and his whole weight squashed her breathless frame.  
  
Miraak remained motionless over her, laying down on her soft, warm curves, too weary and shaken from what had happened to even dare to lift his head and cross her gaze. It was only after some time, when he heard the regular rhythm of her deep, slow breaths that he strained his limbs again to delicately disentangle from her. He took off his outer robe, and covered her already sleeping form.  
  
He briefly contemplated her sated expression and sighed, as he sprawled near her side. One of his arms rested over his forehead, and he looked intently through half-lidded eyes at the bright night sky.  
  
“ _Sahlo, mey mun_.” He softly uttered to himself, too tired to even frown. He closed his eyes, as traces of afterglow still tingled through his numbed body. His resolution had lasted only eight days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dovah Language:
> 
> Sil = soul
> 
> Mun = man
> 
> Ahkrin = courage
> 
> Krongrah = victory
> 
> Dovahdin = dragon maiden
> 
> Diist Dovahkiin = First Dragonborn
> 
> Kyne, hiif zey = Kyne, help me
> 
> Smoliin = passion
> 
> Morwuld = cyclone
> 
> Sahlo, mey mun= Weak, foolish man


	14. Word, Bind

**14.**

**(Rot, Gron)**

**Part 1**

 

It was supposed to be a brief deviation from the main route—a way to avoid Mistwatch, a fort she had known to be full of troublesome bandits.

They had both agreed to walk straight ahead, toward the river, without any more delays.

Sure, straight ahead, indeed! She should have known their resolve wouldn't last long, not by the way they had been, ahem, "dawdling."

Of course, all the fault had been his, as usual. His innuendos had become less and less subtle as they bantered, and she... well, she had lost any last shred of shame the night before. So surely it had been his responsibility to make sure they did not... eh, dawdle. His word, not hers.

Then, somehow, she found her back pressed against the Atronach's Stone in a very compromising position—even after a certain someone had accused, and still maintained, that she was the only troublemaker. Ah yes, that was conveniently unexplained and forgotten, right?

She had pondered so many times upon the many occurrences that had happened during that journey, dissecting every little detail in search for some clue. It was strange, how the warm fondness that surged from those memories had in the past elicited only bitter resentment.

Now _and_ then, of only one fact had she always been completely sure: something had abruptly shifted between them since the morning of their departure. They had reverted to how they had been just before leaving Apocrypha. However... it wasn't exactly the same. It had degenerated, acquiring an unrecognisable, sappy, and dangerously addicting flavour she had never tasted before then.

They both had become unrecognisable from their previous selves, performing silly antics that they would have never dreamed to indulge in before. All of that sentimentality that had started to pour from her proud mouth, sometimes it was still so embarrassing. And the silly, flirtatious jests which he promptly answered back! Oh, she would never forget any of them, he could bet on that.

It had felt like their usual, sharp wits had been, in some mysterious way, completely smelted while they had been sleeping the night before, to never be forged back. And the hilarious part of it all was, that despite their ironclad, untouchable pride, they had been too molten by each other's wooing to even care.

In retrospect, she could pinpoint the exact moment they had fallen into the pit of no return. It had not been the night before, like their latest activities would have induced anyone to believe—even her, at first. As Lydia had told her once, men remained sufficiently detached in the long run by such types of liaisons, unlike many women, who inevitably fell head over heels, losing their hearts in the bargain. She had been wondering, was that really true? And no, that absolutely was no admission to anything, so no smug smirks, or she would have stopped right there.

It had been the next morning, she reckoned, the moment she had, for once in that whole ordeal, unwittingly played some of the right moves. Well, hadn't she? She could swear to all the Divines, it had not been on purpose. All right, maybe she resorted to those "feminine wiles" just a tiny bit once in a while, when she really wanted to get her way. But just a tiny bit! Depicting her as a scheming seductress was just a big, gratuitous exaggeration.

 

**\- Cragslane's Cavern -**

It was an unusual, pungent smell of burnt carrots that roused her itching nose first. Her sleepy mind, though, refused to be awakened by its intrusive tingling, and so returned to a more appealing activity. Blissful sleep. Oh yes, so much more pleasant! Who cared about some sweet aroma, when one could simply bask beneath the warm, comforting cocoon of a soft pelt? And so she snuggled even more tightly around it, clinging with tenacity to its delicious, waning numbness.

Well, that was the plan, until a loud, metallic screech, followed by a sharp thud, pierced her ears and made her limbs cringe. It was her subversive stomach, though, that sadly chose to complain, grumbling with no shyness, like a dying Dwarven Sphere.

She sighed, defeated. It was just impossible to steer away from wakefulness, and so one of her sticky eyes slowly pried itself open, to discover that she was inside a tent.

A dumb smile formed after her slow realization, brightening her sleepy face. It must have been Miraak who carried her there while she was soundly asleep. Oh Divines, she had not snored, right? She touched her mouth, relieved. Well, at least she had not caught her drooling, thankfully.

Ah, Miraak... She sighed longingly, a besotted expression colouring her flushed cheeks, while she remained still under the pelts with a dreamy gaze lost in the ceiling, reliving the events of the previous night.

Never before it had been so, so... She nibbled her lower lip in an effort to find the right words. Intense. Overwhelming. Passionate. Her hands swiftly leaped to cover her burning face, as she finally fully realised the result of her little, risqué stunt. Oh, sweet Divines!

A gleeful squeak threatened to slip away from her throat the more she ruminated on it. It was so hard to believe, yet he had said yes! Yes! She restrained her legs from kicking the air in wild thrill. Finally everything between them was flowing in the right direction again! Like it should had been from the very beginning, after they had left his old temple.

She swiftly crawled out of the tent, her heartbeat still pumping wildly in her ears, and there he was, her _morwuld_ , near the camp fire, with a...

No way. Him? Impossible!

She stopped, confused, observing with growing perplexity the questioned object. Perhaps she was losing some sight. Or not. That thing in his hand, it was indeed a ladle.

"You are cooking!" she exclaimed, baffled, as if he had suddenly sprouted horns. A thick, grey column of smoke was rising few feet away from the mouth of a large pot that clattered threateningly over the fire. The already vexed scowl in Miraak's flushed face, at hearing her tactless disbelief, only worsened to an unflattering sneer.

"So the little temptress finally deigns to wake up," he grunted out, and then bent over the pot to inspect its contents, letting the heat from the fumes dampen more of his already stuck, moistened dark hair.

"Hi to you too..." she muttered, taken aback by his unexpected churlishness. She threw at him a last, disconcerted glance, before grabbing her underclothes, neatly folded under her polished armour, and timidly retreating back into the tent.

To her growing dismay, however, he just continued to ignore her, not even answering her bashful greeting with a small, reassuring nod. He proceeded instead to stir whatever was ominously burbling inside the cauldron, with the same attitude of someone poking a dead, rotting skeever with the end of a stick.

Her visage darkened as she pulled the leather straps of her armour. That sarcastic quip had sounded so resentful and cold—far from the coddling she had been expecting with mixed trepidation. She really did not understand. Shouldn't he at least be content after what had happened last night? She bit her lip in frustration, a new habit that was becoming more persistent lately, and cast another quick glance at his dour countenance before turning away, even more dejected.

All of her past misgivings, the very ones she had believed to have been extinguished forever, quickly rekindled from their fresh ashes. Why the sudden cold shoulder? Was a warm smile too much to ask?

A pang of dread pierced her chest, and the boot that she had just grabbed slipped from her hand, falling to the ground as she came to a bitter realisation. He was regretting his decision.

She widened her eyes, petrified, but then slightly shook her head in denial and resumed putting on her boots.

No, she was being silly. It would make absolutely no sense! He was just being grumpy because his empty stomach had no consideration for his manly pride, and had lowered him to touch a wooden ladle. Yes. Yes! She was just reading too much into it.

With her spirits again uplifted, her merriment soon returned tenfold after she lifted her chin, catching how forcefully he was throwing some poor leeks inside the offending pot.

Eh, surely when he had been the mighty, holier-than-thou High Priest of Solstheim, all of his meals had been exclusively prepared by the best chefs of the time, and served in shiny, expensive silverware. She would have bet any amount of gold that he did not have the faintest idea of what he was doing with that pot.

Ah! Poor Miraak, she silently snickered, forced to perform such mundane, menial tasks! Well then, she smiled slyly, it was time for a certain understanding redhead to cheer him up from his horrible plight, in her own special way! And with no forewarning, she hopped behind him with the full force of her not-so-light weight, clasping her arms around his unsuspecting waist. A breathless, surprised grunt rumbled from his chest.

"What are you preparing?" she chirped with an inviting voice, resting her cheek on his back, but almost fell on the ground when he disentangled himself from her embrace with a harsh, strong tug. He brusquely walked away to fetch an empty bowl as she blinked, shocked, at his retreating back.

"Take and eat," he sharply ordered, handing her the same bowl, now filled with a doughy, brownish mixture, supposedly some kind of soup. He then, for some reason, poured a whole bottle of mead inside the large, fuming pot. Perhaps an unsuccessful attempt to smother the fumes.

She meekly sat down on the log, observing gloomily how he coughed and dispersed the smoke, waving a rag over the pot. Her hurt feelings quickly morphed to curbed rage the more he avoided to cross her withering glare on purpose. She did nothing to deserve such kind of awful treatment!

"What's wrong with you now?" she finally asked, exasperated, unable to stop a petulant pout from curling her lips. Sithis and damnation, she had been so sure that everything was going smoothly, for once! That childish, unbecoming frown, however, became very useful in masking a grimace of pure disgust when she tasted the first spoonful of soup. No need to let him know how his cooking skills were atrocious, and worsen his sour disposition. Especially with the looming menace of being saddled forever with the ungrateful task.

"What happened last night," he finally turned to glare at her with folded arms, stressing each single word with a low hiss, "will not be repeated again." His posture was rigid, straight, and his resolute, cutting tone clearly stated that he would not tolerate any form of rebuttal. She almost spat out the slop she was eating.

"W-What?" she stuttered, dismayed at his forbidding expression. No, it was not possible, she had heard him wrong. He could not withdraw his word like that, not so fast, not after everything they had shared. He had wanted it too, hadn't he? His hardened scowl was unmistakable, though, and she felt her stomach churn. Her eyes started to prickle, and she blinked to fight back the tears. It was as she had feared. How could he do that to her!

"I should have known better than to believe in you!" Her hands clenched tightly into fists over her lap as a gritted hiss resounded, accusing, even if her voice came out shocked. His scowl immediately deepened into a defensive frown, his lips already parted to throw a harsh rebuttal, but she did not give him the chance to utter a single word.

"You coward!" she spat out in a high-pitched screech as she abruptly stood up. "So in the end!" She went on even louder, making him flinch and slightly step back. "After everything you have done!" And her scratching scream rose even higher. "You are not going to marry me!" She threw down the half-empty bowl right at his feet, as if it were some kind of dirty gauntlet, and marched furiously toward him. "After you seduced me, and reduced me to a smitten fool!" A fist flew straight to his face, but he promptly recovered from his stupor and managed to avoid it in time. "I should have known you would flee from your responsibilities, you bastard!" Her howl was feral as she leaped to hit him again, but he quickly slid to her side and then, as she savagely turned to hit him again, he seized her wrists.

"Cease this idiocy now, Bree!" he shouted, after he dodged a kick from her knee, one dangerously close to his loins. "Be sensible for once and listen to me!" He grunted roughly from the strain. Even if he had pinned her wrists behind her back, and had her tightly immobilised in a parody of an embrace, she was still wriggling and trying to hit him back with her head. "That was not what I intended to convey, you foolish girl!" he bellowed, making her stop in her tracks. "Always rushing to some asinine conclusion of yours!" he rasped, full of reproach, still wary of letting her go, even if her muscles had slowly relaxed under his grip.

"You... didn't?" she uttered, perplexed, her hesitance palpable.

Such fleeting and unpredictable volatility would have scared off anyone else, but Miraak had never been an ordinary man, and he was already used to years of her silly tantrums, a symptom of the fiery dragon's soul within her. He knew the tricks to bridle them successfully without getting trampled in the process.

"You heard me," he grunted, catching his breath, as his vice gradually loosened, like he was untying an unpredictable, wild beast. The worst of it had been avoided.

"Oh." She turned away, in a vain attempt to conceal her flushed face, suddenly highly self-conscious.

"Yes, _oh_." A hint of amusement softened his stern gaze, but he quickly erased it.

"What I meant..." he went on, but then halted and cleared his throat to subtly smooth away the hoarse uneasiness in his voice. "You must understand." He pinched the bridge of his nose as he let out a heavy, tense sigh.

"Not everything is as simple as you are prone to believe." His voice dropped to a lower, suave cadence, the same he usually employed when he wanted to captivate her, to capture her full attention and mould her to his will. Nonetheless, from his evasive gaze and his unnaturally taut posture, those little disclosures from her earlier outburst did not leave him as unaffected as he was trying to pretend. His fingers slowly moved a red lock away from her face, and then caressed her cheek, slowly sliding down, until they reached her chin, delicately tipping it up. Black eyes locked with brown ones in a simple, intimate gesture that completely enraptured her.

"You do not know Mora as I do," he whispered, his gaze softening. "His plans are meticulous and convoluted." He added roughly, "Long-ranged, by virtue of his knowledge. Bree, I..." He abruptly stopped again, breaking their stare, as if he was having sudden second thoughts on what he was going to say. His hand retreated, dropping to his side as he backed away from her, lost in his own thoughts.

For that brief moment, she had really believed she'd misheard him in her besotted entrancement. An alien note of desperation leaking from his voice, behind words that sounded like the beginning of some kind of admission.

"Taking the risk is not feasible." He cut the silence with terse sharpness, as if his mind had quickly turned down a decision on the very last moment. "We must wait." His gaze reacquired that stark, cold determination. "Our binds with Hermaeus Mora must be completely severed first." His tone was final, leaving no room for further questioning.

Miraak was completely mad. That would take ages! Years that she was not willing to wait. And certainly not because of his vague and paranoid conjectures. He was reasoning like a Greybeard, and Alduin would still be soaring through the skies if she had ever listened to them.

Her appalled face must have been answer enough, because he folded his arms again and promptly interrupted her unborn protest. "And that," he stressed, regaining his usual, overbearing assertiveness, "is the end of the discussion, Dragonborn."

It was ironic how his rational refusal had only produced the opposite effect, weaving a blindfold of frustrated yearning around her infatuated mind. He should have known better than to take a direct approach to the issue. Her thoughts had only been interlacing and racing toward one goal, unable to catch and follow the trail he had willingly, albeit subtly, hinted to her.

She had to find a way to convince him, once and for all. His flaunted resolution was not as steadfast as he wanted her to believe. She knew him. The lack of any serious attempt at persuasion from his part was the very proof of that. And technically, he had already yielded.

An impish smile curved her mouth as she moved closer to him, her eyes shining with ill-concealed mischief. It seemed like she had to give him a little reminder of why he had already caved in once.

"Do not dare!" he hissed, backing away, slight panic colouring his tone. Oh, so he was well aware of what she was up to. Good.

"And why?" she asked sultrily as she pounced on him, effectively trapping him in her embrace. She tiptoed up to capture his lips, but he tilted his head, and her peck landed on his cheek.

"So you presume this will always work!" he exclaimed, outraged, while trying to wiggle away with no success.

"Well, it does, doesn't it?"

"You impudent...! I am serious!"

"Just shut up and stay still!" A meaningful glare was his prompt answer, so she changed tactics. "Pretty please?"

"Do not play minx with me! This idea of yours is just preposterous!" He growled in a vain attempt to shoo her away from kissing his jawline. "Rash. Irresponsible!" The huskiness from his waning voice, however, could not match the strength of those words anymore. Not when those distracting lips teased the sensitive, exposed skin behind his earlobe. "Have you really pondered the consequences?"

"Of course I did!" she exclaimed, stopping her assault for a precious instant. It was enough to break the light daze he had been in, and he quickly stepped back, gaining some safe distance from her.

"Of course you did." He snorted, rolling his eyes. "You are talking to _me_ , do not forget that!" he spat, as his glinting eyes narrowed to a dangerous, calculating look. "I know you too well now! How your twisted logic works." He sneered viciously. Then his tone shifted to an alarmingly smooth and misleading caress, full of something like certain suspicion. "You did not go to the alchemy shop just to purchase some toiletries, did you." Her sudden flinch said it all.

"Well..." She fidgeted, looking around, her cheeks suddenly aflame, only further confirming his theory.

"And so your brilliant solution is to keep the child!" he barked, furious.

"No! That's just one reason! Only an added benefit," she finished lamely, but then another, more convincing defence swiftly came to her mind. And she had nothing to lose—she had already come clean about that. "It is not like it won't happen sooner or later!" She tried to sound sensible. "I was already counting on it, so why postpone?"

Miraak, however, did not appear even a bit persuaded, as he groaned in a rare show of unconcealed exasperation.

"You are completely missing the point. How unsurprising." And he let out another frustrated sigh. "Now be reasonable," he went on, compelling his tone to be more obliging in a strain to make her see some common sense. "Do you even have a clue at how onerous handling a household is? At how taxing it is to nurture a child?" Now it was her turn to be outraged.

"Are you implying that I can't be a good wife?" she cried, enraged.

"No... I..." And once again he found himself speechless, his dark eyes widening at the unreal turn of their... Discussion? Quarrel? Whatever it was, had abruptly turned to an argument, again.

"I should have guessed that was your problem! How typically Nord of you!" she spat disapprovingly, as if being a Nord was an offensive fault on his part.

"What?"

"Keep well in mind that I can learn everything that I need to know, if required!" she went on shrilly, completely ignoring the growing inner turmoil transpiring from his calculating, yet stunned stare.

"There is nothing I cannot do if I put my mind on it! Do you hear me?" The fists clutching his robe slightly shook him, to stress her point. "And I swear to all the Divines, they will have everything I never got!" she assured fiercely.

"They?" Only that faint, questioning, low murmur left his lips after her outburst. An inexpressive, deceptively soft inflection that touched her like a cold caress and froze her on the spot.

A chill ran through her spine as she realized her stupid error. Such a tiny, superfluous detail that was not supposed to reach his ears yet. Even someone rash and thick like her knew that one did not carelessly drop such information to any man, especially when he was a paranoid control freak like Miraak.

And his reaction was not helping at all. There would have been no difference if he had been wearing his mask. His face was unreadable, stuck in an unnaturally blank expression.

A nervous, completely out of place chuckle escaped from her throat as she shrugged, embarrassed, unsuccessfully shying away from his stifling stare.

"It is sad growing alone, so..." Her cheeks coloured again, and a strange, warm heat rushed into her head. It was different now, without passion dulling her mind. And, more importantly, his mind. Only then did she truly realize how much she had been relying on seduction alone to get her way. So much that she had gotten used to always running behind its shield at any little sign of trouble.

A strange, uneasy silence settled between them.

"You really were not jesting, then," he uttered, disbelief softening his tone into a low, astonished murmur. "You are truly serious about this."

"Of course I am serious," she said, dismayed. Hadn't they already discussed that point? "I've already told you so! What were you thinking, then?"

A strange, rosy shade suffused on his strained, deadpan visage, and that alone gave her an unmistakable clue. The way his eyes obstinately refused to meet hers just confirmed her hunch.

"Oh, Divines!" she exploded, her face reaching new shades of red from utter shame. "It is not just for _that_!" She felt the strange urge to pull her hair in exasperation. "Is that the reason you are being an ass?"

Not a sound left his lips, still tightly clasped in that same frozen, blank expression. The way his hands were clenching at his sides, though, and how his chin tilted up in proud countenance, revealed enough to her, even if his eyes still mulishly refused to meet her searching ones.

Oh, Dibella! Just the implication of his preposterous certainty intensified her blush. Yes, she was eager to resolve their little intimate conundrum, but she would have never resorted to such shallow means! How in Oblivion did he come up with that? Did he truly think so little of her?

She was going to traumatise his ears with a high-pitched tirade when his expressionless mask unexpectedly cracked, leaving space for an emotion she would have never, ever thought to see revealed in his face. Disorientation.

And then he blinked.

Miraak, the one who always knew how to turn any situation in his favour, had blinked. She couldn't help, but reciprocate his confounded gaze, equally nonplussed.

"Are you alright?" she blurted unthinkingly. As soon as she spoke, though, he broke from his stupor, and the rosy tint lingering on his cheekbones was immediately concealed by a rush of unexpected, gratuitous rage.

"I won't condemn my firstborn to Mora's eternal servitude!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs with a feral, ugly snarl, before swiftly turning his back to her, just walking away.

She stared at him in utter shock as he marched to the other side of the camp. Miraak had never lost his cool like that. He then grabbed the first worn empty bag he could find only to stop in front of a barrel full of food rations. He had never shouted at her like that, not with such ferocity.

If the situation had been different she would have burst into resentful rage at his tacit, arrogant assumption that she would nonetheless remain quietly at his side like a little trained pup after everything he had implied, said, and done. How dare he treat her like that! Taking her for granted!

She would have screamed, too, at the top of her lungs, how much she hated him, with all of the venom she could muster, before running away to who knows where—only to corner him into looking for her again, and slap in his face how it was him, in the end, always running after her. And not the other way around.

And she would have done exactly so, if her intuition had not whispered to her a little word. 'There.'

There was the root of all of her problems. And she would have lost the precious prize she had just claimed if she indulged so soon in her pride.

And so she approached him, suspiciously quiet, leaning over one of the barrels, just few feet from his side. He blatantly continued to ignore her as he took some bread and cheese wedges out, just to brusquely put them into the bag with a menacing scowl. Far from being intimidated, she studied his movements through not-too-subtle, sideways glances, waiting for the right moment to launch a different kind of approach. A front-line reconnaissance.

"It still surprises me, how much you love cheese," she commented airily, getting no reaction. "On travel I prefer apples. So fresh, juicy, and crunchy. I really love them." Her probing, however, seemed a waste of effort. He did not deign her with a glance. It did not escape to her hawk-like peeks, though, how his hand briefly lingered in hesitation over some vegetables, then quickly grabbed some shiny, red apples instead. And that was the confirmation she had been looking for.

"You know, I really do not understand your worry," she whispered very softly, as if she was making some sort of confession. "I've always gotten the impression you have great confidence in your abilities." From the brief halt of his arm, she knew he was now listening carefully.

"And there would be so much time to find a solution." A heavy, aggravated sigh reached her ears, but she quickly went on before he could retort with some other unpleasantness. "As long as their souls are linked to Nirn he will have no power over them, right?" An annoyed sneer was now marring his features, but she continued nonetheless. "So the solution is very simple. We make sure they do not grow stupid and make a pact with him, like we did."

Despite his anger, a faint, deprecating smile mildly softened his shut expression after hearing her tentative quip. "You really believe we can keep him at bay with such labile technicalities. Ah, Bree, you are so naive."

Miraak's retort was worded to drip patronizing derision, however, the thick weariness transpiring from his voice, and that last note of unconscious tenderness, had been enough incentive to spur her into holding his hand between hers, and then softly press her lips over its knuckles. "No, I am not. You are just doubting yourself," she murmured, looking straight into his eyes.

Such an inconsequential gesture, with few, simple words. Those alone opened the breach to his already moribund resolve. Ah, if only he had gathered enough guts to tell her the truth then. Perhaps she would not have been so stubborn in the first place.

"There is nothing we cannot overcome, if we are together," she uttered as her mouth lingered over the rough skin of his large hand.

She could feel it, as his back unwittingly tilted towards her, that she had finally found the key to obtaining what she wanted.

"This is not the moment to question yourself, my _morwuld_ ," she continued, with a tenderness she had never willingly poured on him before, as she slowly caressed his cheek.

"I know what I'm talking about. I've fought you. I've seen your strength." She delicately cupped his face, not caring to conceal her smitten faith from his now burning gaze. "Your determination. You always obtain whatever you desire when you truly set your mind to getting it."

He should have known better than to let her sweet-talking cloud his already skewed judgement. Well, at least he had tried.

"Bree..." his hushed, deep voice croaked. "I am flattered by your belief, but..." He shifted uneasily, unable to conceal that odd, unfamiliar awkwardness anymore. "I do not think..." But she interrupted him, resting her fingertips on his lips. He was finally crumbling.

"Am I not here with you?" she then whispered, even more zealously, and his restless expression relaxed, pleasantly surprised. "I want you. Is that not proof enough?"

Using herself as a bargain chip. That was a low blow, she had to admit that. That clumsy attempt at manipulation, with her heart so foolishly exposed on her sleeve—it had been, nonetheless, endearing. And he had been secretly yearning to hear such dulcet pleas from her for far too long. The way her genuine appreciation sweetly pampered his ever-famished male ego had been too much to resist, even for his old, hardened will.

"You are the cleverest man I've ever met." Her fingers buried in his hair, pulling him even closer to her, as he raptly listened to her. Those sweet little morsels however, were not enough anymore. He was starving to hear more.

"Very resourceful." She brushed his lips with hers. "And skilled," she murmured softly against his ragged breath. Once she perceived how deeply it was affecting him, she could not contain her infatuated admiration anymore.

"That's why I have no doubts," she continued, even more fervently, as he hung on her every word. "Why I am not afraid." Tenderness came out so easily now. "You will succeed." And praises she would have never dreamed to ever utter aloud. "You just have to believe in your _mul_ like I do," she whispered breathily, full of unrestrained passion before his mouth hungrily seized her own.

She had no chance, or the will to protest, at the sudden, rough push that made her stumble backwards and sit on one of the sealed barrels as his hips settled between her legs, forcing them to wiggle in the air, wide apart.

"What...?" she squeaked breathlessly, breaking the kiss to look at him, alarmed.

Something abnormally hot, almost scorching, grazed one of her hips. It was only when she noticed the burnt tatters held in his fist that she understood where her loincloth had just gone.

"Are you mad?" she cried, scandalised, but he just chuckled, amused at her reaction.

"Hush. You needn't wear that from now on," he growled huskily in her ear, the tacit implication too unsubtle to be missed, even by her.

And it was clear that she had extirpated the last sprout of caution that he had, somehow, managed to preserve.

In hindsight, the conclusion was inevitable, regardless of his struggles to postpone it.

A flawless plan in the end. He had to acknowledge that, and should have not expected less. It had only been a matter of time, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon language:
> 
> morwuld = cyclone
> 
> mul = strength


	15. Word, Command

**15.**

**Rot, Uth**

**Part 2**

Her hand, at the last moment, hesitated.

Its knuckles lingered for minutes over the wood, tempted to spring away and leave untouched a door that had never felt so forbidding before.

She slowly focused and shut her eyes, in an effort to collect her already frayed nerves, but the nagging, hypercritical voice buzzing in her head did not want to shut up. It flat-out remarked how foolish she must have appeared to the passing citizen, idly standing there, in front of her old doorstep.

And so she gathered all of her courage. With a new determined glint in her green, Nord eyes, she knocked quickly, two curt bangs, before lowering her stiff arm at her side. She waited, with her chin proudly lifted up and a straightened, inflexible back, but an anxious fidgeting threatened to overtake her idle fingers.

She curled them in a tight, iron fist. There was no time to waste in foolish self-doubting. She had to act now, when that odious man was well far away, and too occupied in Dragonsreach at enthralling the Jarl with his venomous tongue.

She immediately took advantage of the nerve-racking waiting to quickly review one last time her prepared speech. Yes, it was perfect as it was, simple, enlightening and logical. There was no need to get agitated, it could not fail; she had done everything in her power to make it so.

And then a low snort left her nostrils, when she remembered the outrageous amount of gold she had shelled out to Breigh. That little, bratty usurer. She had threatened every time to spill the beans to the very man she was being paid to spy on, only to milk for more coins. Children these days... She would teach her a lesson one of those days. One she would never forget, that was for sure.

In the end however, her costly services had proven to be invaluable to draw the detailed schedule she needed. As Nazeem's daughter, Breigh could easily roam undisturbed in Dragonsreach, and thus follow the mage's daily habits without even raising the tiniest of suspicions. A perfect plan, if she could say so herself.

Nonetheless, she had to bitterly acknowledge, that even the little advantage she obtained could not significantly raise any of her chances. If one wanted to be brutally honest, as long as the odious man continued to spin his honeyed lies, the possibility to make the Dragonborn see the truth was not just slim. It was a fool's errand.

Old deadbolts suddenly clanged, and all of her thoughts froze, like a spotted deer on open land. Even the speech she had carefully prepared had already drained from her throat, word by word, when Breezehome's doorway finally creaked open.

"Lydia?"

Bree's jovial expression immediately darkened to a suspicious, distant scowl, making her stomach cringe. It happened as she had feared, the cold welcome she had been mentally preparing to brave for days. That small lapse of initial surprise in her eyes though, shining with something akin to faint delight, fed her the grain of hope she needed to sustain her purpose, and so she politely stepped back, and greeted Bree with a small nod.

That same feeble seed though quickly desiccated in a soil of grim foreboding, the moment her gaze lingered on the delicate, silky dress her Thane was currently wearing.

"You should not have come here," Bree muttered full of reproach, already slamming the door, but Lydia quickly managed to keep a crack open with her boot, before it could knock right into her face.

"Please, my Thane," she tried to reason, "I beg of you. We can't let this go unresolved. Not after all the years we've lived and fought together!" The sincerity in her pledge must have reached her ears, because those big, brown eyes, still so incredibly expressive despite everything, glimmered with clear uncertainty, even when she shook her head in stark denial.

"No, I won't hear any more of your excuses." The certainty imbued in those words hurt more than the coldness flattening her voice. "And do not call me your Thane."

"I only ask for a chance to talk, Bree," she insisted in a last desperate attempt, "to fully explain myself to you at least once!" And without him around, was the unsaid part she resisted to add, because she knew it would only worsen her already defensive disposition. Her pleas however were not achieving the desired outcome, and so she rushed to try her last resort. "Or is the possibility that I may be in the right too scary to even be heard?"

And Bree, to her utter joy, in front of such direct provocation immediately bristled in barely contained outrage, just like she once used to. She might have remained imprisoned for years under the clutches of a scheming fiend, but at least those strong traits of her personality, like her touchiness, seemed to still survive unblemished, thank the Divines.

"Come inside," was her curt acceptance, and Lydia internally sighed, relieved by her small victory. Yes, there was still something of her old, dear Thane buried deep inside, and that thought alone gave her the strength to not give up on her. Dispensing bitter truths to the girl had always been her burdensome duty, not just as her Housecarl, but also as her only best friend, and she was not going to stop when she needed it the most.

"I see you've refurbished Breezehome," she suddenly said, in a clumsy attempt to break the unsettling silence thickening between them. A trace of sad wistfulness escaped nonetheless, no matter how hard she had tried to wipe it away with some neutral affability.

What was once a coarse, yet warm and messy abode, like her Thane had used to be, was now haunted almost beyond recognition by arcane tomes, scrolls and Dwemer artefacts, all systematically ordered in the all-pervading, outdated taste of that man. And then, there was also that alien smell of old parchment and musk heavily lingering in the air.

With a silent, brief gesture of common courtesy, her Thane invited her to sit at the small table. It was new like the rest of the furniture, made of rich dark wood, with an elaborate style completely different from the stark simplicity she had been used to seeing.

Bree quickly proceeded to pour some foreign Colovian wine into two Dwemer golden cups, and then sat opposite to her, folding her arms with a distant, distrustful glare plainly visible on her face.

Being for the first time at the receiving end of her full contempt was too unsettling. She would have never thought possible to experience in Breezehome that unwelcoming sensation of disorienting unfamiliarity. She gladly lifted the filled cup Bree had offered her, and drank the horrible feeling down with one long swallow.

"I thought you disliked fortified wine," she dared to say. Its hefty taste had already loosened her knotted tongue, but it could not curb its sharpened edge.

"I've just acquired the taste," was Bree's chilling reply, after a small, brief sip. She just nodded noncommittally, while observing the long cascade of red, combed hair that reached Bree's waist.

"I see you also let your hair grow." Her lips however unintentionally pursed, like she had just been chewing a bitter wedge of lemon, and her mute disapproval did not escape the fulminating stare of her prickly Thane.

"Did you come here only for useless small talk, then? Because I have no time to waste."

"No, no. Of course not," she politely denied, just to pacify her, but she could not stifle a sparkle of defiance from flashing in her green, accusing eyes. "It's just that you've always remarked it would be a hindrance during battle."

"Well, I am entitled to change my mind. Or am I not?"

Lydia swallowed the retort that was dangerously pending on the tip of her tongue, together with her whole drink in one single gulp, and then served herself another glass. She needed all the help she could get, to avoid blurting all those screaming thoughts, those worries that had been macerating in her head for far too long.

"I am waiting Lydia. Soon Miraak will be back, and he won't be as congenial as I am."

Bree was unwittingly right. She had to put some common sense in her Thane and fast, before that man returned from his errands, and uprooted what little she could still salvage of her Thane's dimmed awareness. She had at first thought that she could still proceed with cautious tactfulness, but after verifying how much the situation had degenerated, she came to the grim conclusion that only a brutal, direct approach could possibly wake her up.

"I want to know what happened five years ago in the Skaal village, after you opened that Black Book."

Bree's face suddenly lost all colour. "I've already told you," she gritted, clenching her cup and clearly disliking the topic, "I remained trapped." This time however, she was not going to be gracious or sympathetic, she was not going to let her Thane evade the issue anymore.

"That's not the whole truth," she barked, "I am not an idiot! Something happened, something that you don't want to tell me. But you owe me an explanation! I left everything and followed you without question, even if I was against the idea from the very beginning!"

There had always been something sinister lurking in the way that man approached her Thane after stealing a dragon soul, a predatory undercurrent that she had never liked. It had always put her on alert, even if she could not pinpoint with clarity then what it was. And the prospect of Bree, walking all alone to face him in Apocrypha, had filled her with such an indefinable sense of dread, that she had to rationalize about it before sleeping to keep it quiet, repeating to herself that she was just being overprotective and silly, because her Thane had defeated Alduin after all, and was the Dragonborn of the legends.

"I waited for your return six months, Bree! Six months!" And yet, as the uncharitable time gradually flowed onwards, she had to finally acknowledge that her gut feelings had been right.

"You were going to fight that man to death!" She stood up, almost screaming. The memories of those hopeless days of searching, still had a grip in her heart. She had rummaged Miraak's Temple for a clue, a sign, anything that could tell her if Bree was still alive somewhere. In the end though, all of that grief did not matter. She should have listened to her instinct, and stopped her Thane in time. "To death, Bree! And now you live with him?"

She pondered for a long time, what that sinister vibe had truly meant, and the answer she slowly came to form was more than too unsettling for her liking. It was just plain creepy.

"I want to know what happened in that fight!" An old, shrewd and powerful man stuck there completely alone, for centuries. "Why you did not kill him!" And then there was her young, pretty and gullible Thane, the only one able to reach him in Apocrypha. "Or better yet, why he did not kill you." She would never forgive herself for that error. Never. She had failed her friend then, but she would not anymore.

She studied the blanched expression of her Thane, how her white knuckles continued to clutch tightly her barely drunk glass of wine. Her lips were slightly twitching, and her frown deepened in a distressed scowl.

"You said," she murmured reproachfully, "that you came here to explain yourself! For what you did!" It was obvious she was trying to seek refuge behind anger, and force her into a retreating defence. And yet, Bree was still refusing to match her own piercing gaze.

"And I will," she quietly stated, "after you tell me why you remained trapped." The calmness she deliberately displayed though, did not defuse the situation.

"Why are you still so fixated on that?" her Thane screamed, suddenly leaping up from her chair and spilling wine all over the table. "It happened years ago!" She continued with her shouting though, heedless of the liquid dripping on the floor. "I am alive! Everything is fine! There is no need to dwell on that anymore!"

Bree stopped to breathe, looking at her with wild eyes, red-faced from the strain. From her violent reaction, there were no doubts. Something else was there, buried beneath her stubborn refusal. Something she was trying to keep hidden.

"Because I need to know the truth," was her laconic, unflinching reply. For her peace of mind, for a chance to rectify her negligence. But for Bree's sake, she really hoped to be wrong. And if not, she was going to make that man pay, no matter the cost.

 

 

**\- The Rift: North West road -**

 

"And the least you could have done was inform me of the regrettable situation!"

An upset, masculine voice echoed from afar, beyond the visible horizon, as long steps gradually approached their appointed post, swiftly followed by quicker, frantic ones.

"For the Nine Divines, Miraak!"

And now, a distinctively acute feminine voice was audible too, nearer than before.

"I've already told you! I thought you had already eaten that! How was I supposed to know?"

"That is the problem. You never think! What if it had turned into a toxic concoction? You would have died from it, you foolish girl!"

"What? It was just burnt soup! The truth is that you can't stand the idea of screwing up so badly at something. Admit it!"

"I won't talk any further, if you persist at employing such foul expressions."

"What? You mean 'screwing'? Please. You are just trying to throw me off track, because I am right!"

Another strangled whine came from the sack, but a well delivered kick from the Boss quieted it down. It could be troublesome, if they got spotted before they could make a proper assessment of the targets.

"By the way, your nerve is just unbelievable. I am the one that should be sulking here. Me! Do not think that you can burn my clothes whenever you like!"

A derisive snort followed suit, now identifiable with the tall shape of a strangely masked man. Some kind of nutty Winterhold scholar for sure, judging from his outlandish robes and the weird sword he carried.

"You are the one conveniently diverting the topic. And your taste in underwear is laughable. It had to be done."

"How dare you!"

The indignant, piercing scream instead, came from a petite redhead with really powerful lungs.

"They were comfy, you idiot!"

At first glance, judging from the expensive style of her armour, she could very well be a wannabe adventurer from a filthy rich family, or better yet, the daughter of some hotshot merchant. From what he had just heard though, and the way she acted around the mage, he had to be more than a hired escort. It was inconsequential though, as long as she was of good lineage. They could barter her for some ransom, then.

The Boss made a signal to remain hidden in their positions, and then left his hiding place, to move into the open and occupy the middle of the road, ready to rehearse their usual routine.

That day was already proving to be very profitable, two Imperial carriages and now these wealthy wanderers. He wondered if they would finally give him his first daggers. He would soon be eleven during the grape harvest. A pair of steel ones would have been perfect, even if he wanted some sharp, light glass. And why not? He had already proven his worth multiple times, thanks to his pickpocketing skills.

"Stop there!" the Boss shouted, threatening to unsheathe his axes. No matter how many times he had already attended these ambushes, it never stopped to be thrilling. "If you want to pass, there is a fee to pay."

Both travellers abruptly halted their bickering. It was refreshing, how the woman was not screaming in fright yet. On the contrary, from that distance he could see her mouth moving, as if she was mumbling something not very ladylike. The Boss nonetheless continued as if nothing, respecting the procedure.

"As I said, the choice is simple. It is your gold or your life." They were professionals after all.

The mage however, instead of trying to appease the Boss like he should have done, just turned to the woman and folded his arms, completely ignoring him.

"You assured me this route was secure." From his biting tone alone, one could catch that he was strangely torn between gloating or just being irked. "A 'piece of cake', if I remember well. And I indulged this inane request of yours only because of that."

"I know that!" the woman grunted, clearly peeved at being questioned like that. "There had never been so many in the main roads before."

"We could already be in Whiterun, if we had done as I said." In the end his irritation prevailed, and she bristled in retaliation.

"It is not my fault if those useless Imperial pigs do not patrol anymore. How could I know? But I bet the spongers will not spare any men to exact their taxes!"

Their situation was not good, at all. Her annoyed rant was far away from the cowed plea she should have been sobbing by then, and from the Boss's ugly sneer, he was not amused by their attitude at all. Those fools would soon be dead if they persisted with that insolence, no matter if they decided to cooperate or not. Or worse, the Boss would drag the woman into their fort and let the others have their share after he finished. And then, who would have to take care of the crying, bleeding prisoner? He, the last wheel of the wagon, of course. An experience he did not want to repeat anymore. Crying women made him feel really bad.

"HEY. I am warning you!"

The bothersome bandit was really grating her nerves with all of that shouting.

As if Miraak's scathing condescension wasn't enough to deplete her already frayed patience.

He had been fostering an inexplicable, displeased mood from the beginning of their trip, clinging at the smallest of trifles to throw unexpected, sharp-edged jabs at her back, like they meant absolutely nothing, They however were stinging, undeserved and just plain annoying, but she just took them in stride, like the patient and understanding woman that she was. She had a very strong suspicion it had everything to do with that stupid burnt soup of his and his easily bruised male pride.

"It was to be expected, Bree," he persisted with misleading calm, as if being ambushed was such a normal occurrence, not bothering him at all, and she just rolled her eyes. The lashing arrogance in his mellifluous tone, not only revealed to her otherwise, but that her grimace of utter annoyance did not escape his keen eyes.

"You should be aware," he continued, arms crossed and with a more cutting edge, "that these are the inevitable consequences, when one lets a civil war rage on."

Her head immediately snapped up, baffled at his under-handed gibe.

"And what was I supposed to do?" This time it was completely uncalled for, the current state of their idiotic Civil War certainly wasn't her fault! "I had Alduin to deal with. Alduin!"

She was well aware that he was restless, that for some reason he was inclined to exacerbate any of their little disagreements, instead of calmly smoothing them out like he usually did. Nevertheless, she could not resist from rising to his bait, the amount of disapproval dripping from his words was too unbearable to be simply ignored. And he, unfortunately, did not disappoint. A single mocking snort came from the mask, but it was churlish enough to fuel her rant.

"For your information, I had all of his followers actively hunting me to chew me out! An entire-"

"Excuses," he spat, "you are Dragonborn."

That unsparing dismissal, curtly implying she had not been living up to her title, knocked her self-worth with the same abruptness of a dagger sliding into tender flesh. And then, as if that wasn't hurtful enough, he swiftly plunged deeper, with a nipping haughtiness she was not expecting to get from him anymore. "I could have easily dealt with both, you know."

For once, she remained speechless. There was no believable retort she could come up with. Deep inside she knew that he could have easily accomplished that, and now his words burnt even worse. It was the sound of multiple unsheathed weapons though, and not her lack of answer, that brought their attention fully back to their current hindrance.

"Enough! You will pay with your lives!" The chief bandit lunged forward with an inhuman scream, and her warrior nature immediately took over, blood pumping in her veins and muscles ready to spring forth, as she unsheathed her own swords.

Miraak with a leap, however, stood before her and managed to intercept the bandit in her stead. Their clashing weapons immediately drew the attention of all the other underlings that ran to charge at him and help their chief.

And so it happened again.

She gritted her teeth in helpless rage, while she remained there, alone, few feet away from the fight holding her swords like an utter moron, watching how the bandits fell one after one, as they tried to land a hit on him.

None of them spared her one look or tried to engage her in combat. They assessed, wrongly, that she was inoffensive enough to be left for last. Her, a secondary target that could be easily dispatched later! Such complete fools.

That had never happened with Lydia, she moped reproachfully. If only she could have engaged them first! Then they would have seen!

She stared surly at Miraak's back, following all of his movements from afar. How was she supposed to polish her rusted skills, if he continually interfered? She stomped a foot in helpless frustration. Sithis and Oblivion, it was her turn to fight!

"He was mine!" she roared, as she marched towards him, zigzagging among the corpses. "Mine! I was going to deal with him!"

He did not seem to be bothered at all by her outburst though, not from the laid-back way he turned his back to kneel near one of the bodies, and that blatant show of complacency only riled her more. "You had no right to steal my kill!"

A strange sense of deja-vu hit her, then. She had shouted almost the same exact phrase to him a long time ago, with the same rancour on the top of a mountain, near the skeleton of some dragon.

"You were slow," was his dispassionate, terse reply, while he quickly inspected their possessions. "His axes would have landed before you could have properly parried them." He slipped from the chief's pocket a small sack of gold. "I had to."

"What?" she spluttered, befuddled by his gall. There was a touch of smugness and condescension in that last statement that shook her nerves like the rattle of a snake. And then it was absolutely far from the truth!

"That's complete rubbish and you know that!" Haste and quick reflexes had always been her strong point. Always! All of her fighting style was mainly based on dodging and quick strikes. "I had everything under control! And all of the other times, then?" she pressed furious. "What is you brilliant excuse for them?"

She never got a decent answer from him though. They both turned around, their weapons one more time drawn, when they heard a suspicious rustle coming from the nearby vegetation.

" _Ven-_ _Gaar_ _-Nos!"_

They had been truly expecting anything. More thugs, bears, a pack of wolves, even a werewolf. It was thus with surprised horror, that she observed how Miraak's cyclone hurled a gangly Nord boy in the air, together with... She squeezed her eyes even more bewildered. Together with a potato sack.

"No more! I yield! I yield!" the boy cried, as he scrambled on the ground in an attempt to stand up, "You can have him for all I care!" He frantically pointed at the big potato sack, squirming in the ground just a few feet from him. His crying however, instead of calming down after she resheathed her weapons, increased in volume, becoming a hysterical, weeping wail.

"Please, I beg of you, don't hurt me!"

And she understood soon why, the moment she turned to look at Miraak.

"What in Oblivion are you doing?" she hissed dismayed, and roughly pulled his arm away. His hand was charging one of his lethal shocking spells.

"It has to be done." His tone was chilling, resolute, but he wouldn't tilt his mask away from the boy, not even for a moment, to look straight at her shocked, widened eyes. "He will alert the rest of his group." He murmured that as if he was chiding her, rather than excusing the unjustifiable.

"So you're going to kill him, just for that!" She continued to gape at him, unable to reconcile the righteous side of Miraak she knew and learnt to love, with his candid admission of ruthless intention. She would have never believed him capable of even thinking to do something like that! And yet a feeble, forgotten voice in her mind, eerily similar to Lydia's, cynically reminded that it had not always been so. Her opinion had been the exact opposite a long time ago, when he had been her sworn enemy once. Perhaps her judgement was not as reliable as she liked to believe.

Despite his impassive explanation though, something in her blatant disapproval must have truly bothered him in some way, because he became suddenly restless.

"Do not be so foolishly soft-hearted!" he spat, finally turning to her with unusual vehemence. "He is no mere child, Bree!" And then his voice lowered to a forced hiss, in an obvious effort to retain his stony composure. "He already chose his own path, joining those outlaws. Do not be mistaken, your misplaced mercy will be repaid only with the blood of innocent people."

"You will not kill him!" It was strange how her own voice could pull out such a low pitched, threatening growl.

"And that's final." Curt and sharp. Assertive like his.

Deep inside though, she was silently panicking. She could come to terms with his shady past and conveniently forget how their relationship came to be. She had even managed to justify what had happened to the Riften guards just days ago.

But killing the boy? No, not this. This she truly could not let it go. What in Oblivion was wrong with him? He was reasoning like some Dragon Priest!

Miraak's body stiffened, she could sense it through the vice-like grasp holding his forearm back. He was at a loss, torn between shocked disbelief and pure outrage in front of what was, without any shadow of doubt, an unequivocal, imperative order.

The spell was still crackling in his palm, but she nonetheless released her grasp. The boy had already ran away.

And she, in her own way, did exactly the same. She gladly rushed to free the hostage squirming inside the sack, rather than tackling the storm he was certainly going to unleash. It took her awhile; the knots were difficult to loosen and she did not dare to use the sword, for fear of unintentionally hurting the prisoner. No amount of concentration though, not even looking at the widened eyes of the muffled Khajiit, could shift her attention away from the piercing glare glued on her back.

"M'aiq is so very grateful!" A pitched cry and an impetuous hug almost squeezed the breath out of her chest, "He will certainly repay the kindness!" It thankfully lasted as long as his obtrusive mirth, though. "Even if he should not be here, at all," he finished with an unflattering grumble, his pointy ears well flattened at their sides. "Well, at least he did not end up in their stinky fort. Hooray for small mercies."

"Fort?" she immediately inquired, "Do you mean Mistwatch?" If the bandits were occupying the nearby Imperial post, then travelling the main route was out of question. The Khajiit however did not immediately answer, but remained there, staring through her with a lost gaze, before blinking a few times.

"Now that M'aiq ponders about it, there is truly no reason for him to be treated like this." And then he stood up to smooth his clothes, completely ignoring her question. "It is the meddling spider, you see. She likes to make people look like fools."

"What?" Her forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"And unjustly involved M'aiq, leaving him with no choice! For some reason," and he leant conspiratorially, his voice lowering to a scratchy whisper, "she is weaving!" He quickly threw a suspicious glance at Miraak, before continuing. "Unravelling in the shadows. And that is bad. Really bad! It makes the thread thicker. Tangled."

She had heard that Khajiit were quirky fellows, but this one really seemed a special case of nuts. "Sorry?"

The Khajiit however carried on as if she'd said nothing, shifting his gaze again to stare at Miraak, who strategically stood by, just a few feet behind them, inconspicuously listening to his rambling. "Or maybe it will be good... It all depends on the twisting of the yarn. You surely will know..." And then he detailed Miraak from head to toe, staring at him with unconcealed fascination, like he was admiring some sort of ghostly apparition.

"Well, M'aiq is almost done talking here. He has to say one more thing to be let free, so listen well." He rested his long, sharpened paws on her shoulders, drawing her undivided attention with the same solemnity of a Skaal Chieftain.

"Jewellery is not made to be thrown in a smelter, remember that. And some things are better read than heard," he gravely declared, before sharply turning his back at them and resuming his travel in the opposite direction, like their paths had never crossed once.

"Leave him be," Miraak suddenly said with an eerily flat tone, that nonetheless startled her, and swiftly grabbed her wrist, stopping her before she could even consider the ridiculous idea of running after the Khajiit.

"He may be a follower of Mephala or worse, touched by Sheogorath," he curtly explained, and she could not pinpoint from his low murmur if he was still distressed, or if its slight hoarseness just came from the distortion of the mask. "The last thing we need is the meddling of another Daedra. Especially if it is the latter."

For once she just let the matter drop and meekly followed his fast, long steps for a while, even if his telling, silent treatment was starting to slowly driving her up the wall.

And yet she quietly endured it, because it was infinitely better than being on the receiving end of one of his scathing, outraged outbursts. It seemed that for some reason the queer encounter with the Khajiit had in some way defused their previous confrontation, or at least distracted him enough from chewing her head off, and she was certainly not going to waste that stroke of luck. And then Miraak's advice had been sensible, despite her troublesome curiosity insisting on the contrary. That was exactly how she got the dubious pleasure of chatting with the Madgod, that one time in Solitude.

The words of that M'aiq however, continued to buzz in her head. They did not have the same amount of baffling incoherence and lunacy that distinguished the servants of Sheogorath. There was a funny, yet undeniable logic underneath his speech that belied its apparent absurdity.

She soon found herself lost in her own musings, remaining unnaturally silent as she walked at Miraak's side. Mephala, a name she had already heard before, when she visited the local shrine in Raven Rock. She knew very little about her cult, but enough to surmise that the Daedra prince of murder, sex and secrets could be no better than the Madgod or Hermaeus Mora.

It was only after some time, that she noticed the different path Miraak had chosen to walk through. There was no need to question the motivation behind his change of route, it was abundantly clear he did not want to be bothered to clean a whole fort of bandits. However, it was suspiciously too north-east oriented and too distant from Darkwater Crossing for her liking.

"Where are you going?"

He did not slow down, as he should have done. Oh no, he continued to walk with irritating self-confidence, as if her note of suspicion was not worthy of any notice.

"Where are you going?" she repeated, this time with a gritted edge that warned there would be problems, if he continued ignoring her.

"Ah. I forgot you don't sense them yet," he finally deigned to reply, with that patronizing, mellow tone of his that he knew drove her nuts. He was clearly trying to dodge her question.

"Sense what?" She narrowed her eyes, even more distrustful.

"The ancient _dovah_ at the peak of that hill," he explained with shameless casualness, pointing off-handedly towards north, like what he was doing was completely innocent and acceptable.

Sithis and Oblivion with that stubborn, impossible man! She used all of her little self-control to not gnash her teeth in an ugly snarl. He was still adamant on doing that, even if they had plenty discussed in the noon about that. She thought her refusal had been unmistakable and crystal clear, and was going to remind him so with a good telling-off, when her mouth suddenly halted, ungraciously gaping at him.

Something here wasn't adding up.

"And how do you know that?" She had yet to mark on the new map all of the Word Wall locations, and there were no flying dragons on the horizon.

"You should not be so surprised, Dragonborn," he drawled with thick, gratuitous complacency, just to rub her in the wrong way. "Have you not ever pondered once how I was able to locate you everywhere, when you freely roamed in Nirn?"

No, she had never mulled over it too much. She had just surmised it was one of those impressive and very complex arcane skills he possessed, but she was certainly not going to freely admit that, not when he had reverted into being such an unbearable, conceited ass.

A day had to pass yet, and she was already regretting the little boost of confidence she had given him that morning. She came to the conclusion that it was not the culinary disaster, but her ill-thought-out honeyed words the main cause of this new, irritating attitude of his.

"Well?" he prodded, clearly eager to seize another chance to boast about his abilities. To the Void, if she was ever going to give him more of that.

"I thought..." It was time to patch up her stupid error and take his ego down a peg or two, but honestly, she had no idea how. She internally snorted, sweet talking to swiftly get her way was certainly not worth this kind of aggravation.

"I suppose the burst of the _Dovah_ _Sil_ helped in some way," she mumbled vaguely. There, it was the _Sil_ , not him. At all.

"And you guessed well for once. I can sense the soul of any dragon whenever I want," he shamelessly bragged just as she feared, puffing out his chest like some sort of big, fattened Elsweyr peacock, "even from a distant plane like Apocrypha. The released energy just served to sustain my ethereal form."

The flood of self-satisfaction oozing from his tongue was unprecedented, but even so, she could not stop her utter amazement from showing in her open-mouthed face. She would have visibly rolled her eyes just to irk him, if her curiosity had not prevailed once more.

"How?" She had to acknowledge how stupid that question was the very moment it left her lips, though. The original meaning of _Dov-ah-kiin_ itself explained it all. Those of the _Dov_ were the ultimate hunters, it was common knowledge.

Miraak and her however, they had to be more than that. They were supposed to be _Ah-Kiin_ , if they had to fulfill the sole, true purpose of their creation: slay the _Dov_ that strayed under Alduin's lead. The ability to locate their prey had to be an inborn skill.

She remembered what he had said to her once, during their first encounter, how she had no idea of the true power a Dragonborn can wield. So he had not been mocking her that time. But then, another more important question naturally followed suit.

"How is it that I can sense nothing?" she swiftly added.

"That's because your _Dovah Sil_ has not fully awakened, yet. You are but a little fledgeling."

Not the patronizing tone, nor the slight snort he barely stifled, even less the flowery metaphor he used to explicitly call her a rookie, pleased her at all. That was the final jab, the last straw. Her patience was over. She had enough of his rotten attitude, and she was going to pour at him what she truly thought of his pompous ass, and then to Sithis whatever happened!

And she would have done so, causing a real rumpus, if she had not caught at the last moment that tiny, yet important detail, he carelessly revealed with his nonchalant answer.

"Does that mean," she squeaked, barely containing a jolt of excitement, "that you can also feel mine, then?"

A slight flinch, almost imperceptible, slowed Miraak's long strides for a brief instant, but she was too thrilled by her little discovery to notice it. She had always been wondering, since her first encounter with Paarthurnax, how much her supposed _Dovah_ _Sil,_ trapped in such a minuscule, wingless, mortal body, resembled that of a real, timeless dragon. Which were the similarities, and more importantly, how many were the differences? Both Paarthurnax and Odahviing had been at a loss, when she had tried to ask them, but now she could finally get a reliable answer!

Now Miraak would finally tell her.

_Now_.

That small notion squashed her delight with the same brutality of a huge, heavy boulder. They had been together for years. Years! And he had never thought once to tell her such an important fact.

Her sudden shift of expression must have been telling enough, because from the way Miraak's body suddenly straightened, he must have finally caught the enormity of his blunder.

"Bree..." From the contrite way his head tilted and the cautious softness in his voice, he still believed he could pacify her with some of his cheap honeyed words.

"How is it? Tell me!" She snapped livid. He was going to tell her what he had been keeping for himself, or else!

"It is..." A weird hiss left his mask, and then he briefly paused and sharply looked away, as if he was pondering which terms were better to employ, surely to contain the damage.

"Strong, and yet undeveloped," he abruptly declared, with harsh, unexpected emphasis, "not aware of its full potential. You really need to work on your _Thu'um_ , Bree."

In the end he let an unmistakable annoyed undertone escape, but she had to begrudgingly admit that his carefully picked words were working their magic nonetheless. They always managed to mollify her somehow. And then, he had just admitted she had great potential! She could not help but feel an unbecoming warmness tingle her cheeks.

"And I would be, if you finally taught me how to properly Shout _Mul-Qah-_ _Diiv_ _,_ " she retorted pouting. She had been pestering him on that for some time, but nothing. He had been, and still was, infuriatingly refusing to indulge her for some reason he artfully avoided to truly explain.

"I've already told you I will, when you start to truly apply yourself," he grumbled, as he usually did every time she brought up that particular topic, "And stop distracting me with your silly questions."

"What? That's rich!" The nerve he still had. "You are the one doing that!" Indeed. He had completely diverted her attention from what he was currently doing: going to Bonestrewn Crest, when she had clearly stated that morning that they absolutely could not.

"I am not joking Miraak, you can't _Gol-Hah-Dov_ that one." She tried to sound threatening, completely failing. "You promised me!" Oh Divines, she was resorting to whine.

"I promised you nothing." What a ruthless, stubborn bastard.

"I made a pact!" she blurted out in aggravation, "I can't go back on it!" And that made him stop on his tracks.

"Pact?" He sharply turned back to face her, a tinge of accusation betraying the apparent coolness of his voice. "You never said anything about a pact."

He crossed his arms, and she could easily depict the narrowed eyes glaring at her from behind the mask from his posture alone.

"Uh... Well..." She could not help but cringe under his intense scrutiny. "I forgot?" A convenient, long lasting lapse of memory to be completely truthful, that began during their first heated discussion on the nature of dragons, back in Apocrypha. Oh, merciful Akatosh, their trip was going from bad to worse by the minute. If there was one thing that upset Miraak more than talking about dragons, it was the suspicion of being purposefully kept in the dark for so long.

"Go on." And from his chilling hiss, he was already fuming.

"As long as they follow the Way of the Voice," she slightly hesitated, and the horrible gut feeling intensified, twisting her insides, "I promised to not harm them. And Nahfahlaar, the one in Bonestrewn Crest, is one of them."

A bank of clouds hid the sun as he silently stood there, motionless, piercing her with his inscrutable, silent stare. It was the quietness that preceded the storm.

"Of course, Paarthurnax!" he abruptly spat, as if the name had the vilest of flavours. "I should have known!" And then, the last bracing of his cracked composure crumpled, as he thundered in a rare show of pure, unrestrained anger.

"Silly girl!" he bellowed, grabbing her shoulders. "Don't you see? He is just using you to rule over the dragons! You owe him nothing!"

"That's what you think!" she shouted back, freeing herself with a sharp tug. "You haven't talked to him yet!"

And then she forced herself to talk softly, with a self-imposed calm she rarely had in those situations, only to persuade him to desist from his stubborn purpose. "He has truly changed, Miraak, even if you find it hard to believe so. He is the only one that truly helped me against Alduin, don't you see?" Just for that, she owed Paarthurnax everything, no matter how much Miraak crusaded against it.

"Only because he coveted to take his place," he snarled, while he paced around in an attempt to calm down. And it seemed to work.

"Now be sensible, Bree." His tone suddenly shifted to a low, soft growl, as he walked closer to her, with the same gait of a predator encircling his designed prey. "There is not another dragon for at least five miles." He halted behind her back, and delicately brushed her unruly mane. "Do you really want to travel all that way by foot?" His hands descended to rest on her hips, and his voice became even softer, almost a hypnotic lull next to her ear.

"He won't be hurt, I promise you," he continued with his underhanded coaxing undeterred, as her body slowly relaxed against his. "It will be only for a brief flight. We could already be in Whiterun, by now." His purr lowered to an intimate murmur. "At home." A hand slid around her waist meaningfully, and she closed her eyes, a shiver running through her spine. How deliciously dirty he played to get his way.

"Well..." Her small, feeble uttering sounded still reluctant, and so he pressed further, unabashed. "Sharing the bed where my lonely, clueless _dovahdin_ slept every night." His hoarse, enticing whisper was enough to overflow her already rampant imagination.

"Oh..." Her face flushed in reawakened yearning, as she tried to form a coherent sentence. His proposal, exposed in that way, sounded so innocuous and alluring... Surely if he ordered Nahfahlaar to forget the event while under the effects of the Bend Will Shout, no retaliation would come after its use. No dragon nor Paarthurnax would ever know of a little breach of her word.

Her _Rot_.

"No!" She sharply turned to face him, the entrancement broken. "Absolutely not! No Bend Will Shout on him, Miraak. I'm serious! You can't-"

"That is where you are sorely mistaken, Dragonborn," he interrupted furiously, with a gritted growl that sounded even more forbidding, thanks to the metallic distortion of his mask. "I CAN!" He roared those words with such unexpected, loud vehemence, that for a moment it truly frightened her, freezing her on the spot.

"My _Rot_ is not bound to anything!" His hiss had already switched back to his impassive, cool façade, but that intense rancour, the same one she had failed to notice during their whole trip, was still there, this time flowing copious, abrasive and rough.

"Anything," he repeated, stressing slowly every syllable, with a defying tone that was impossible to misjudge.

And then, he seized her waist taking her completely by surprise. With a swift, strong pull he lifted her up, throwing her over one of his shoulders.

"And even less by yours," he added with a sinister edge, as he resumed his march with long, determined strides.

"What..!" she squeaked, as her nose bumped against his back. "What are you doing?" she screeched, hardly believing his insolent audacity. "LET ME DOWN!"

The odious wretch however continued to walk forwards unperturbed, ignoring her screaming obscenities without even flinching once. And so she resorted to punch his back with all the strength she could put into her fists. She would have lifted her knees to give him some well-earned kicks too, but unfortunately he had already predicted that possibility, and kept her legs firmly secured within the tight hold of his arms.

A snort of pain resounded behind his mask though, and then a sharp, painful ache spread on her backside, making her stop on her tracks. Her eyes briefly widened in surprise, and then twitched in barely contained rage. That was..! Her inner dragon howled in outrage as her vision tinged of vindictive red. A spank! The bloody bastard! Nobody treated her like that! Nobody! She was going to kill him! Make him pay! Pay!

"I swear on Akatosh, Miraak!" she thrashed, screaming like a mad hagraven, even if her throat started to become sore from the effort. "If you harm even one scale of Nahfahlaar, I..!" She truly was at her wits' end. What could she truly threaten him with? It had to be absolutely scarring. Devastating! And horrible!

"I..!" He was right, though. He was physically stronger and more experienced in the _Thu'um_ than her, so gloriously kicking his ass and beating him to a pulp was out of discussion. Not to mention he already knew all of her dirty tricks.

"I will make you regret it! I will..!" Call some dragons? He would just slay them all, or make them his little slaves. And then that was exactly what he wanted. Sithis and damnation, she had no concrete leverage! And yet, she had to come up with something, at least to save face. "I will never talk to you again, you loathsome wretch!"

If her arms were not too busy hitting his back, she would have slapped herself for the sheer idiocy that just left her mouth. Really? Was that really the only threat her mind could come up with? And yet she continued.

"Try to come near, next time! I will Shout at you on sight, bastard! Do you hear me?" How pitiful. Perhaps it would have been better to just shut up. She sighed resignedly, and stopped her flailing, not only because her muscles were beginning to be tired, but also because it was a futile effort, from the sound of his unwavering, fast steps.

Of course empty threats or complaints would have not worked. They never had on Miraak, from the very beginning. And she should not have felt so disappointed and pained by his attitude, after all. That selfish man would have never jeopardized any of his goals to suit her wishes, especially when she had no concrete power to stop him. It was a bitter truth, and to believe that he might have changed even a bit was just stupid.

Perhaps she could still ruin his plan. If she shouted at the top of her lungs when they were near the nest, Nahfahlaar would get her warning and fly away in time... Perhaps...

She was too absorbed in her own brooding to notice Miraak's sudden halt. He gave her no forewarning, but knelt and dropped her like some dead weight on a marbled floor.

"Call Odahviing," he ordered, cutting off her array of accusations before they could even part from her lips. She quickly stood up, taken aback by his abrupt request, and looked around. They were in front of the Atronach Stone.

"That's..." Impossible, you disgraceful bastard, was what she wanted to spit, along with a long string of curses and foul expressions, but then she hesitated, her thoughts racing, jumping to different, possible conclusions. If she gave him another blunt refusal, he would just follow his plan of hunting Nahfahlaar. Sooner or later, in some way the _dovah_ would break free from Miraak's binding Shout, or other dragons would notice his brainwashed behaviour. And then, all of Paarthurnax's efforts to convert them to the Way of the Voice would be ruined the moment they would declare war on her, because of her undeniable ties with Miraak. And she was not foolish enough to believe she could dissuade Miraak from slaying them all.

"Last time we did not part on friendly terms," she attempted to compromise, sounding too suspiciously meek, "so I don't think..." She conveniently let the silence fill in the blanks, avoiding to accidentally cross his gaze.

She was such a bad liar, and hoped that for once he would not be the wiser. Odahviing always answered her calls. They continuously bickered for inanities, so it was normal. However lying was better than confessing she did not want to ruin her friendship with the dragon. She was sure he would not understand.

"Indeed." The misleading, calm way he pronounced that word, could have been easily misinterpreted for a glimmer of reluctant resignation, if not for the cold challenge that sharpened its clipped tone. "And why not? I am sure he will heed your request." The curbed anger that slightly shook his clenched fists was unmistakable, though. "As anyone does," he then added, with a tinge of pure, gratuitous spite that surprised her, and then, made her reflect.

His unyielding, unexplainable obstinacy. Those sudden, uncharacteristic fits of anger. The gratuitous jabs. And then all of that bragging at her expense. Perhaps it was not just about bending the mind of some dragon, as she simply believed. There was something more, something she could not put her finger on.

"Why are you so set to shorten our trip?" she asked calmly, trying to dig deeper, and at the same time redirect his attention far away from Odahviing, or any other dragon. "There are no pressing matters, no one to answer to. For once we are free to do whatever we want!"

The soothing words she carefully chose however, seemed to be the wrong ones to her dismay. Even from those heavy robes she still could glimpse, through the drawn folds of the fabric, how all of his muscles tensed for a brief moment before seemingly relaxing again, as he retreated back to his usual brooding and unreadable silence, turning away from her. And so, she pressed on.

"I thought that after millennia in Apocrypha you would have enjoyed wandering around and seeing new places." Yes, even someone obtuse like her could clearly see it by then. The problem was not simply about riding some dragon or arriving to Whiterun before sunset.

"It had to be a surprise," she continued, trying to elicit any kind of response, anything that could give her a clue of what in Oblivion was truly troubling him. "I was planning to take you to Eldergleam Sanctuary."

He uncurled his hands, slightly turning towards her. A sign that he was listening to her at least. And yet he persisted in his frustrating silence.

"The first time I entered there it took my breath away. I could not believe my eyes!"

Her fake enthusiasm grated even her own ears.

"And then we will stop at Mixwater Mill, I'm sure Gilfre won't mind, she still owes me one."

How much she had itched then, to rip out and melt that infuriating, inexpressive mask of his.

"That way we can make a brief stop at Mara's Eye Pond, before camping in Darkshade."

Getting rid of it forever.

She just had thought that if she could have seen his face while they talked, instead of guessing all the time, everything would have been so much simpler.

Simpler indeed! When he was involved, nothing was ever 'simple'. She soon learnt to always delve underneath, because some of his long acquired habits were too ingrained in him to completely disappear.

The lack of his usual predatory grace for example, it often betrayed his apparent aplomb. It meant the surge of rage he was trying to suppress was still there, dangerously coursing under a brittle sheet of cold quietness.

"We could also stop at Graywinter Watch."

But then, she had been clueless, and so she had continued.

"And then we must absolutely stop at the Honningbrew Meadery, and buy some drinks, because there are different flavours that you have to..."

She gasped at the sudden impact, her widened eyes fixed at the golden mask hovering just inches away from her face. She had been expecting a condescending retort or another venomous jab, not to be shoved with such force against the main wall of the Atronach Stone.

"We won't go to any sanctuary," he growled in a low, deadly voice that revealed he was truly seething this time. "And we won't stop at any mill," he continued, pinning her forearms against the stone, and she flinched at the strange, unpleasant spark that coursed through her back, "nor to some pond." His looming frame hid the cloudy sky from her view. "And we won't buy any drinks in any meadery."

"Why?" She gritted, her heart pounding in her throat, as she squirmed to find a way to slip away and not burst into tears. Why was he behaving like a complete, utter bastard? Did he truly believe that she would hesitate to Shout straight in his face? That she would quietly accept the brunt of his unjustifiable tantrums?

"You truly do not get it, do you?" Despite the scornful venom coursing in his growl, it was the lurking possibility of some insight behind it that prevented her from releasing her _Fus_.

"I am not Lydia!" he hissed ferociously.

She stared at him dumbfounded, her anger temporarily quelled by utter confusion. He was making no sense. "What does Lydia has to do with anything now?"

"It never ceases to astound me," he instead commented, completely ignoring her question, and his usual deep voice dropped even lower, its caress almost leaving a misleading warmth of intimacy, if not for the simmering anger that continued to flow beneath its quiet smoothness.

"How easily your _Rot_ entices them to indulge you so." His gloved hand rested around her small neck, as his thumb slowly stroked her throat, pressing her chin to tilt up even more.

"Such proud, ancient wills..." His growl lowered to a soft murmur, almost pensive, as their eyes locked again, or so she perceived from the stifling, heavy sensation that suddenly overwhelmed her when his mask tilted downwards, finally crossing her gaze.

"So ready to please," he added, with a strange touch of resentment, "to kneel at your silliest whim, without any coercion."

She could not see beyond the thin, dark slits of his mask, but the intensity that studied her distressed frown was becoming unbearable. And then, there was also that choking sensation of heaviness lingering in her chest. Not only had it resurfaced at the worst moment, but it had also deteriorated, in comparison to the last time they had seriously argued.

"Stop it," she gritted, as his body gradually pressed hers further against the stone. Luckily, it sounded only resentful and threatening. That inconvenient, growing wish for them to just drop all of those horrible arguments and just go back to silly, safe banters, it was tampering again with her rage, pushing in its place a stifling vice-like anguish, and she could never let it show through. He had to never know. The strength of her will was at stake.

"Or what?" he taunted maliciously. "Make me, or call one of your dragons." At the mention of dragons her chest tightened even more. All of her efforts had been useless; they were back to the beginning.

"Even Paarthurnax," an eerie fluctuation surfaced in Miraak's whisper, as he leaned further, just inches away from her ear, to growl the dragon's name as if it were a blasphemous curse, "is tightly wrapped around your finger."

"Yes, you truly replaced Alduin," his tone was grave and unforgiving, like frozen steel, "just as I believed." And yet a strange, inexplicable thrill ran through its chilling inflection, shaking her from her temporary stupor.

"What?" She feebly squeaked, unnerved by his unexplainable shifting mood. And his strange idea. Was that what was bothering him? Because it was just stupid. "Just because they once obeyed him doesn't mean that-"

"You have, silly girl!" he barked, interrupting her, and the hand on her throat pushed her jaw towards him, so that her cheek was tightly pressed against the side of his mask, as he murmured near her ear. "You just refuse to acknowledge that." There was an edge of repressed resentment, behind that befuddling, faint tremor in his voice.

"It is of little importance though," he then added roughly, and the strange inflection vanished as swiftly as it appeared, replaced by his familiar arrogance, "because I do." She blinked disoriented, his low voice was back again to his usual smooth cadence. "And you," he added with a condescending purr, as he lifted her chin to watch her face, "you are bound to me, now."

Thick, dark satisfaction trickled from those words, but even if his smugness was glaring, it escaped her notice, too confused and secretly elated by the complacent way he admitted they were bonded. And if the sudden race of thoughts caused by the meaning of 'bond' wasn't enough, her fickle attention was already entranced by the purposefully slow, teasing strokes of his gloved fingers, outlining one of her blushing cheeks.

"It is unbreakable," he went on with deliberate softness, using that intoxicating deep, guttural tone of his. "Forged by fate itself. You will never get..." But then he briefly paused, as if he was carefully weighing his next words. "I will always stand by your side."

The abundant self-confidence overflowing from his tone should have tipped her off that something was fishy, or at least that uncharacteristically blunt admission of affection, especially when he had been so angry just a few minutes ago. And yet, after tasting such unique drops of romanticism, her mulish, antagonistic determination melted down, like the rocks of the Red Mountain after a shower of hot, incandescent lava. Nothing of her previous, granitic resolve remained to cover her blush, nor sustain her weakened stance. It had been reduced to a muddled pile of inconsistent ash.

Yes, in that very moment she would have acquiesced to any of his requests. Any, even the most outrageous. And Miraak seemed to be fully aware of that, because his posture radiated a sudden sense of fulfilment, as if he had just gotten from her the validation he had been looking for.

And then, as unexpectedly as his unintelligible, uplifted mood, she felt a funny tingling spreading from one of her sides, under the plate of her armour.

"What..." She stared baffled at the luminous, large hand quietly resting on her hip. "What are you casting?" she squeaked, unable to curb her fright. That shiny spell, she immediately recognized it from her brief training with Faralda. Was he mad? She was wearing plated mail, for Mara's sake!

"Shh," he softly chastised, as she tried to wriggle away from his hold, "it is just _Sparks_ _,_ _dii_ _lok,_ completely innocuous. Now..." She would have immediately noticed the evident sense of accomplishment that coated his words, if she wasn't becoming panic-stricken.

"It is lightning, Miraak! Lightning!"

"Just be quiet and observe," he chuckled instead, pointing at the faint light shield, visible only when the sparks made contact. "See?" He commented quite satisfied, with a presumptuous edge that could have been slightly irritating. "The protection of the stone is already working as I expected."

"Eh?" She looked at his hand again, and then at the faint glow of the magic field. So she had unwittingly absorbed the arcane protection of the place. Well, that explained the weird sting in her back, when he pushed her against the wall. But then, that meant he had dragged her there on purpose.

"Since when were you planning this?" Always the manipulative bastard. He did not bother to tell her at all, because he knew she would not have given up the blessing of the Warrior without making a fuss.

"Ah, not so clueless after all," he slightly teased, as his hand mindlessly stroked her hip. The warm tingle of the spell swiftly spread from the metal to the skin underneath, and she abruptly straightened, smothering an undignified squirm.

"You could have told me!" Her voice did not tremble; good. If he noticed how edgy that silly spell was making her, he would mock her forever.

"Mm. Does it upset you?" His chest rumbled with contained playfulness, further confirming her suspicion.

"What do you think?" she retorted. It was supposed to be drenched with abrasive sarcasm, just to stop his irksome taunting, but a tiny jolt unexpectedly fluttered down her spine. Her knees slightly shook, and a brief, accidental moan escaped from her lips. His hand dared to slowly slither on her back.

"What I think," he purred with a provoking edge, pronouncing each syllable with deliberate slowness, "is that all of this," and his charged fingers idly lingered on the metal, just at the base of her spine, drawing small, tantalizing circles, "only arouses you, _Dovahkiin_."

She could see it from his insolent posture: he was having fun at her expense. And yet she could not wipe away his irritating smugness with a sound, cutting denial, not when he could observe with shameless satisfaction even the smallest joggle of her hips, when he let stronger sparks crackle.

An overwhelming and unexplainable sense of self-consciousness suddenly seized her, one she had not felt for a long time, and she instinctively tried to wriggle away. He immediately put a stop to her attempt though, resting his other arm on the wall, just over her head, keeping her effectively squashed under his bulk.

She couldn't help but swallow nervously, feeling oddly small and trapped, as the warm tingling of the spell continued to spread through the metal, like a soft swarm of tiny bubbles, slowly pooling between her legs.

Clingy need, stormy resentment, boiling desire. And then a blanket of raging shame, for an insinuation she however failed to fully grasp. Her mind reeled in that utter haze, trying to understand what he wanted to accomplish with that upsetting stunt, and more importantly, how she wanted to deal with it. If he was trying to bully her around for some absurd reason, she had to put him in his place and keep her ground, as a principle. She had to immediately erect some front before it was too late, for Dibella!

"What?" she rose her chin in exaggerated defiance, only to stare straight at his neck. "And why should it?" It came out too feeble though, a shadow of her infamous fierceness. A pale imitation that needed to be forced out, as if she had to respect some kind of unwritten cue and cover a boiling undercurrent of undefinable eagerness, rather than expressing genuine hostility.

And from the way his palm continued to lazily stroke her lower back, her lame attempt did not seem to provoke any kind of reexamination. On the contrary, it seemed only to spur him more. His hand just slipped under the hem of her mail skirt, as if she had purposefully egged him on.

"Because," he replied with a roguish, yet predatory whisper, while lifting her leg to hook it around his side, "you could put an end to it, couldn't you?" He had the audacity to stress his point with a light squeeze on her bottom, before pushing his hips against hers. "And you have not."

There was in that last statement such unfiltered conceitedness and brazen presumption, that it should have earned only an indignant, loud backlash from her, and maybe also a punch straight in his face. She however remained still, gaping at his mask in speechless astonishment and guarded craving, as an unmistakable bulge shamelessly pressed against her mound.

"Or am I mistaken?" he murmured, purposefully teasing, and the slow trail of tingling warmness left her leg to go up and linger under the side of her breast. His deep and promising soft tone however was tainted with dark playfulness, and for a fleeting moment she had the queer impression that he was commenting on two unrelated topics at the same time.

An instant of enlightenment that quickly dissipated though, when the cool metal on his wrists brushed her thigh, and a glove replaced the rough fabric restraining his growing bulge. She instinctively squeaked in surprise, only eliciting an amused rumble from his chest.

"What are you doing?" Her silly question only obtained a deeper, exploring caress, and then smooth, thick leather dipping in wet softness.

"What do you think I am doing?" he dared to snigger, as his slick fingers slowly sunk deeper inside, latching with ease on that particularly elusive, buried spot her own small hands usually struggled to reach alone. She looked at him outraged. He was sniggering, at her!

"Stop this now!" she tried to order with indignant spite, but only a choked moan left her stiffened body, when his hand started to make the coming forth motion that invariably drove her to her knees. Oh Divines... She had to do something soon, put him in his place in some way, before it happened. She could not let him win, no matter what game he was currently playing at.

"And why should I?" he growled, not even concealing his twisted enjoyment anymore. "Come on, tell me," he prodded with unconfined gloating, as the pressure of his fondling intensified. "What will you do to me? Mm?" Her legs abruptly shook and she could do nothing else but wrap her arms around him, to get some kind of support.

"This is..." Her knuckles were white from how tightly her hands were gripping the fabric of his outer robe. "You are playing unfair!" She hid her flushed face in his chest, and bit the cloth to smother a whine.

"Am I now?" he mildly scoffed. "How rich, coming from you." His initial amusement evaporated, leaving its place for a guttural voice thick with lust, but also tainted of resentful malice. "I see now why you insisted on buying this particular armour set," he commented with embittered appreciation, while his other hand fondled her naked bottom. "You really thought about everything, didn't you?"

"Idiot..." she managed to stutter despite her erratic, short breathing. "You know very well..." And her hands tightly clung to his back like an anchor, when the tip of his fingers started to slide faster, worsening that blazing, delicious itch with each stroke, "that it was not for..." Her voice faltered when his thumb started to brush that other swollen, exposed little spot, just to drive her wild. "For... that!" She inhaled deeply, in a desperate attempt to regain some control, only to be dazed even more by the unique smell of old parchment and musk woven in his robes. A smell that despite everything, she could not help but crave to have near.

"Of course." His enthralling, husky murmur sounded slightly piqued, but she could not care less now, she was too near the verge for that. "You are always the innocent one, aren't you, _Silnaakin_?" This time though, the sarcasm coating his simmering yearning was unmistakable, even in the thickening haze.

"The great heroine, with the purest of intentions. No, do not dare to deny it now," he went on, and his roughened voice, despite the incoherent pleas muffled in his shoulder, managed to remain firm, briefly sharpening up to a parody of strict chastisement, just to stress his next words with utter mischief. "Not when you lack the decency to even wear a loincloth, _volzah diiv_."

He worded that with deliberate wrongness, the blatant provocation aimed for the sole thrill of getting away with it unscathed, while she panted nestled against his shoulder, bucking her hips and squeezing her arms tightly around his torso, too far gone to yell anything back at him. And yet, it was still not enough. The cold metal of his mask pressed against her ear, and a prurient, hoarse whisper quivered with intentional slyness.

"Always the lusty, Breton maiden."

And then his hand abruptly stopped its motions. It withdrew with no forewarning, mercilessly, leaving her shaken, at the edge of drowning under an overwhelming wave, just to rest mockingly on her hip.

Her glazed eyes refocused on his mask, blinking numbly, as the tip of his fingers lazily outlined the curve of her thigh, slowly, almost soothingly, leaving behind a wet, warm trail on her thigh. Feverish slits stared back, intently fixed on the unsteady, short breaths escaping from her reddened lips, before his hand reached her cheek and brushed away one long strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear with unexpected gentleness. A touch that reawakened her mind, offering with its reassuring gesture the key for sudden understanding.

He had been brooding about yesterday.

About her little stunt, and that quip about him being a lecherous, horny old man. Divines, she had just said that in jest, only to provoke him a bit. Well, perhaps she had exaggerated a bit, but this...

This was a devious way of payback, his own tortuous way to teach her a little lesson. Was that how he had felt then, when she had been the one shamelessly teasing him back? And that last phrase sounded suspiciously similar to the title of a certain, infamous book. So he even compared her to the main character of a raunchy novel. How melodramatic, it's not like she resorted to crude seductions all the time. He made it sound like she was some kind of ruthless femme fatale! And he some poor, helpless victim. Him! The gall he had.

She did not know if she should burst out in laughter at his exasperating touchiness, be furious with him for her denied release, or just rage at his totally unfounded insinuations. He was the guilty one, the great master of self-control that burnt her innocent loincloth in a spur of passion!

"It is only your fault!" she retorted, but the outrage was quickly ruined by a hiccupped, out of place giggle. It did not stop her from roughly pulling his collar though, and snarling defiantly at the slits of his mask. "So finish what you started, _wuth jul,_ " she intimated with sultry bossiness, just to flaunt at him how much she had not learnt the lesson, at all. "If you have the balls to..."

His retaliation was immediate. He did not even give her a chance to finish her phrase, she just found herself abruptly lifted up, with no other support but the wall pressing against her back, and large hands pinning her hips against the stone.

" _Paaknu lokiin!_ " His hiss was cutting, but its throaty growl unmasked the mischievousness that guided his intent, and how much her unrepentant defiance was truly arousing him. He quickly loosened his belt, forcing her to wrap her arms around his neck.

"Yes, cheeky _dov_ ," his voice dropped even lower, to a soft, tantalizing grunt, and her legs instinctively clung around his waist. "I will concede that."

The tip of his length caressed her entrance with a slow, lingering stroke, and a long moan of frustration left her throat, eliciting from him a small, amused chuckle. What an insufferable tease he was, always dragging out, delaying the inevitable on purpose just to force her into undignified squirming, and how it had grated her, once. Now, however, she had to admit that... She closed her eyes and bit her lip, when he finally parted her soaked folds and slipped inside with a slow, single thrust.

"It is all my fault," he admitted with a sighed grunt, as he completely buried into her. There was a weary edge artfully hidden behind his lust, and she could have easily caught it then, it she had not been savouring the unique sensation of finally being so fully filled. "The mistake was to offer anything."

She blinked confused, too consumed by the burning hunger his thick, enormous hardness exacerbated inside her when it retreated back, rubbing against her clutching embrace with unbearable slowness.

"Do not ever resort to that," he grunted, and another rough thrust swiftly followed, staking her still and breathless against the wall. "Even if you are desperate enough to make a pact."

That metallic uneven growl, slightly distorted by his dragon mask, was tinged with a regret she would have surely questioned, if she could have glimpsed at the grave frown, dimming for a moment the lust in his black eyes.

"Pact?" she whimpered wantonly, as he exasperated the fire flaring between her thighs with another excruciatingly gentle retreat. And yet an unexpected, insightful implication abruptly dug deeper, tickling that buried and embarrassing dark need she had once ignored, and now struggled to recognize.

"Oh, that was no... Pact..." she feebly stuttered, her mind shutting down when her senses went overload, like one of those defective Dwemer steaming machines he loved so much. The contradicting soft and rough pace he kept, that roughened, bass voice of his, the light magic still sparkling from his touches... Everything was driving her haywire, surely like he had planned. "You cunning man..." Yes, she had carelessly offered to play all of his little dark fantasies, but that was certainly no pact!

He just snickered at her answer, but there was a faint trace of bitterness in it. "Yes, _dii lok_. In retrospect it was an irresistible trap. Believe me, I gladly sank into it." He stressed his crude double meaning with another deep, powerful shove, inflaming her need and knocking her breath out of her. "And yet," he added softly, "I am still sorry for you."

"Liar..." she managed to stutter, before he roughly turned her around and pulled up her hips, while pressing her chest against the Stone. "You are enjoying this too much..." His pace became a fierce, steady pummelling, and her quivering knees would have already stopped holding her up if his large hands were not tightly squeezing her waist against his. "...To be sorry... At all."

"And if so... Tell me then," he panted, his voice just a hoarse, breathless growl, "will you breach the _Rot_ you gave to me?"

_Rot_? Her half-lidded, misted eyes blinked numbly. What _Rot_? He did not wait for her answer, but just bent over to press his chilling mask against her burning cheek.

"Just remember," he grunted darkly, and the whole of his heavy frame overwhelmed her back, when his mask buried on the crook of her neck, "I won't be like any other." His steady thrusts became frantic, his scorching hardness plunging ruthlessly, each shove squashing her body against the marbled stone. "No, _Laat Dovahkiin_ ," even his breathing was becoming heavier and uneven, "I won't ever be your thrall." A strained hiss wavered near her ear, sounding almost despairing, "I refuse to grovel at your feet."

"I..." She instinctively tried to turn and look at him, but he quickly grabbed her wrists and kept her hands over her shoulders, firmly pinned on the wall. "I do not want that!" she whined helplessly, unable to realize why he saying such things, she would never ask that from him! "I love you!" It was a breathless whimper, but he heard it the same.

"That's..." He released her wrists, only to tightly entwine his hands over her own. "...What you believe." His raspy murmur carried such baffling fatalism that she did not know how to respond.

"Please, I do... Not..." She hiccupped, her mind trying to vocalize thoughts the growing waves of pleasure were inexorably sweeping away. Why was he certain that... She... He... "I truly..." She did not finish, she could not remember any coherent sentence anymore.

"Say it then!" he dared ferociously, and all of her remaining lucidity limply hung on the slim thread of his hoarse, pounding demand. "Who is the only one with the right to claim you!" And it snapped in half, under the pressure of his gruff, shouted request. "The only one that proved truly worthy! _Saag nii_!"

From the frantic urgency in his breathless, uncompromising order, she could hear that he was almost there, reaching the point of no return.

" _Marzu!"_ he growled fiercely, " _Nu!_ " And she screamed.

"You! _"_ Her throat however could only let out choked sobs, when the pulsating heat became a fluttering, unstoppable succession of irrepressible surges. "You!" Almost there, near the peak, at the brink of overflowing like a flood between her quivering thighs. "Only..!"

Her piercing cry was abruptly muffled by a large hand.

Miraak had suddenly frozen in a motionless, stiffened halt, and she plummeted down from the collapsing dam of craved release to the dry unpleasantness of reality, too fast to even utter a feeble why.

A loud echo of multiple voices and heavy steps could be heard coming from a far-away distance. They must have heard her. They were clearly approaching their place. And from the direction they were coming, they moved from... A groan left her swollen lips.

Mistwatch.

" _Draaf!"_ It was weird to hear Miraak curse like that. "I told you, didn't I?" There was no way to mistake the gritted, breathless growl in her ear. "But you had to let the runt live!" He was positively furious. He then spat something unintelligible in _Dovahzuul_ as he slipped his still raging hard cock out of her. From the sound alone, those words had to be something very, very obscene.

"But then," he raged hoarsely, as he hastily clasped his belt and straightened his outer robes, to conveniently conceal his glaring hard on, "when have you ever listened to me? _Hi golah miil! Hi fen kuyiz zey vorohah!"_

She just stood there against the Atronach Stone, dishevelled and trembling, dully listening at his half-comprehensible rant about her and madness. She was still too dazed by their abrupt interruption to react properly.

" _Zu'u vaat wah rah! Zu'u fen krii niin pah!"_ That last phrase however was simple enough to be easily understood. She however wisely chose not to reply, and just watched from afar how the flames of the Dragon Aspect blazed around him, as he unsheathed his Daedric sword in a swift, murderous motion, and marched towards the patrol. It was scary; she had never seen him so rabid.

Miraak did not even give them the chance to draw their weapons. What remained of the twelve bandits were severed limbs and rolling heads soaking in large pools of their own blood. It was so gruesome that at one point she had to look away from it. And yet, she had to turn around again when she recognized with stupor the same shrilly, scared cry of that Nord boy.

In the end, he had learnt nothing from his first misadventure. He chose to return to those outlaws, instead of grasping the opportunity to run away from them and start a new, honest life. Just as Miraak had predicted.

She watched with bitterness how Miraak's sword lingered over the boy's trembling chest. It stung to recognize she had been wrong.

"May this be your last lesson," she heard him grimly say to the boy, while lifting his chin with the tip of his sword, and silently waited to see the sword plunge into his neck. "Now flee from my sight."

She stared dumbfounded at Miraak's form, observing how he picked a rag from one of the corpses and calmly cleaned his blood-soaked sword, as he let the running frame of the boy disappear in the horizon.

She could not believe his sudden change of heart. So now, after the boy had proved that he had been right, he just decided to spare him, in spite of their quarrel? How typical. She visibly frowned, unable to ignore the scorching blaze that, despite everything, still refused to dim in her core.

Miraak, however, just overstepped her, ignoring her questioning glare and not proffering a single word of explanation, and silently proceeded to walk in the direction of Darkwater Crossing.

She could have stopped him, seized his arm and whispered some sultry encouragement in his ear, but the mood was completely ruined with all of the blood and corpses lying around. And then, from his stiff, fast steps she could easily deduce that he was silently brooding again, if not still seething. Well, she certainly did not need to nag at him to know the new reason, and it was not her fault he chose the wrong place to pull off his stunt. They were not alone in Apocrypha anymore, he could not take her wherever he wanted. He had to remember that!

She avoided voicing her opinion though. She was not dumb. One did not go to poke an enraged dragon that was trying to cool off and expect to not be fried to a crisp. But more importantly, if he kept ruminating on that, it meant that his stupid plan to bend the will of Odahviing or some other dragon would remain completely out of his mind for a long time. Thank Talos for small mercies.

In her mulling however, it completely escaped her that she had never uncovered what had been really upsetting Miraak for the most part of the day. Or why he had wanted her to obtain the energies of the Atronach's stars.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon Language:
> 
> Dovah Sil = Dragon Soul
> 
> Gol-Hah-Dov = Earth, Mind, Dragon (Bend Will Shout)
> 
> Dovahdin = Dragon maiden
> 
> Rot = word
> 
> Dii lok = my dear (lit. my sky)
> 
> Silnaakin = soul eater
> 
> Volzah diiv = bad dragon (lit. wyrm)
> 
> Wuth jul = old man
> 
> Paaknu lokiin = impudent fledgeling / chick
> 
> Saag nii = say it
> 
> Marzu = scream
> 
> Nu = now
> 
> Draaf = shit
> 
> Hi golah miil! Hi fen kuyiz zey vorohah! = Stubborn woman! You will drive me mad!
> 
> Zu'u vaat wah rah Zu'u fen krii niin pah. = I swear to the gods I will kill them all.


	16. Word, Claim

**16.**

**Rot, Piraan**

**Part 3  
**

 

 

**Whiterun – Breezehome**

 

One blow sufficed to ruin the work of three hours. Just a single, unthinking, forceful hit on the wrong spot. She angrily threw the hammer over the workbench, and a metallic clang violently rebounded against the walls of the sweltering basement.

It was unacceptable. Such a silly error wasn't supposed to happen anymore, not after all the hours of lessons she had been spending with Adrianne. She buried a greasy hand in her messy, bunched up hair, and then lifted her gaze to the ceiling, letting out a long exasperated sigh from her parched lips. The basement, with the heat of the forge raging from the first hours of the morning, was unbearably stifling, and a drop of sweat slowly descended down the curve of her perspiring neck.

Her concentration, despite all of her best efforts, just continued to flicker away, letting her unruly mind flutter free and delve again into the very event she was trying to forget.

She glared again at the large, irreparable crack on the the half completed boot. The more she mulled about it, and the more her face burnt in embarrassment. Why couldn't she ever keep her stupid mouth in check! A furious fist banged against the workbench as she let out a petulant cry. And now, because of her idiotic distraction, she had to restart everything from scratch! She nervously breezed past all the various smith's materials scattered on the floor, and bent to ransack one of the overfilled chests.

To think that Adrianne had been uncompromising on that part, too. After years of neighbourhood acquaintance, the _Warmaiden's_ blacksmith knew her well enough to be very blunt in her instructions: she was fully focused while working glass, or she did not touch it at all, period. Malachite was a metal too sought-after and difficult to recover to be wasted like that. And then, there was the little fact that it was scandalously overpriced.

She stopped her fruitless search and shut the chest with a snap, a worried frown now forming on her flushed face. As she feared, there was no more malachite to go on. She despondently kicked a Dwemer scrap on the ground, and bent to half-heartedly inspect the nearby barrel, in the faint hope of miraculously finding some. This time Miraak was really going to make a fuss if she asked for more.

It was so easy to picture him, still wide-awake after writing up his ledger, slowly pacing near her side of the bed, instead of finally lying down. She had caught him once doing that, fully immersed in his own thoughts, when he believed she was deeply asleep. His full robed frame then would quietly loom next to her, shielding her sleepy form from the first sunrise rays, and stolidly wait for her awakening with a stern frown plastered on his face, before uttering sombrely that they needed to 'talk'.

She picked up some ebony ingots and stacked them over the workbench. He and his bothersome ledger. Sometimes he was worse than a Thalmor accountant. And she could not even come up with some decent excuse this time, considering she had already had the same exact little mishap with the last batch some days ago.

She just sighed at the grim prospect and threw the cracked glass boot in a corner, on top of the other failed pieces. Perhaps he did not truly need to know the details of this new little fiasco, if she managed to subtly dance around the issue and quickly distract him with other things... Yes, sure. Subtly. Like she could. It would be easier to just specialise only in heavy armour and be done with it. After all, she mused as she rummaged another chest, she and Miraak only used that type. Oh, the idea was so tempting, light armoury was truly such a waste of time! She picked some leather strips and walked towards the small forge.

No, no, no. Absolutely not. It was out of discussion. She had promised him that this time it was not another of her passing fancies, so she couldn't lose face like that. Not with all the gold they had to pay to Adrianne for every lesson. Focus. That's what she needed! Just focus. And then Eorlund Gray-Mane's requirements were peremptory. No, there was no way out of it, she certainly could not give up at the first hindrance. She was going to learn the secrets of Skyforge steel, come Daedras or high water! That had been her sole reason to venture in Skyrim, after all.

She grabbed one of the largest nearby hammers and resumed to pound the white-hot metal with renewed vigour, truly intending to craft one of her best ebony shields. That's why Lydia would never understand her. She only saw the dazzling title of Dragonborn, the duties it entailed to keep its lustre, and the attached honour that would supposedly shine through the mists of the ages forever.

Ha, as if! She rolled her eyes and snickered at the absurdity of it all, as her hammering intensified in force. It only took one concordat with some elves to rob the legendary Talos of his hard-earned pedestal, and he had not been just another Dragonborn, like her. He had been the first ruler of an unmatched empire.

To think that she had fully embraced Lydia's point of view, without any reserve once. It had been too flattering to resist then. She had been so young and eager to feel recognised, to be someone worthy of praise... And then with everyone constantly feeding her delusions of grandeur, how could it have been otherwise?

She had been so unprepared then, too rash and emboldened by all of those uninterrupted victories. It was difficult to admit, but the slaying of Alduin had truly gone to her head then. She had truly believed to be invincible, omnipotent and unstoppable, like some reborn Talos, or like the fabled Dragonborn idealisation the bards kept singing about.

Her first and only defeat thus had been devastating, an impetuous hurricane that had mercilessly swept away all the pillars sustaining her skewed appraisal of herself and the world. It flung her back, down to the harsh ground of reality without any regard, and forced her to deal with the unpleasantness of some overdue, deep rethinking.

In the end, Nordic beliefs revealed themselves to be pure nonsense, and all the grief she had gotten in exchange from following them was certainly not worth shelving her original plans again, or her new ones. Only a fool would choose differently. And yet, Lydia continued to criticise her decisions over and over, as if she knew better than her how to lead her own life! Well, she couldn't care less about her insignificant opinion now.

The memory of the woman's stoic defiance, though, undaunted by her wild screaming fit, danced again vividly in her eyes, and she could not suppress another wave of unadulterated shame.

That embarrassing outburst had been all Lydia's fault, without any doubt. As long as her insinuations had been addressed only to her, her red-hot temper had flailed under a tight leash. She could bear to be deemed an easily gullible woman, she was already used to it, but when she had dared to embroil Miraak in her accusations... Her steady hammering wavered for a brief moment, as her cheeks burnt up in self-consciousness. There were no other words to describe it. She had completely lost her marbles in that situation, like an utter fool.

It had been so blatant what Lydia had been trying to do then, and her impulsive outrage had sprung forth, eager to mince her detestable charade from the root, the very moment her barrage of malicious questions had finally ceased.

"So that's why you came here? To get the truth?"

She could still hear the shrill of her voice piercing the silent crackling of the hearth, making Lydia's stiff, straight posture slightly flinch back.

"Don't make me laugh!" she had then spat, suddenly slamming her palms on the wine-stained table. "Miraak warned me that you would try to pull this off, and he was right!"

It was a stretch of the truth, but it had mattered little then, when Lydia had been shamefully attempting to dig into their private matters for her own gain.

"Pitting us against each other," she had barked relentlessly, uncaring of Lydia's blanching face. "How petty of you!"

Petty indeed. The shrewd woman had been artfully unearthing some residual sense of guilt only to use it against her, just to fish for details that were too intimate to share. It was belittling, not to say insulting, how she deemed her too oblivious to ever see through her cheap tactics, or worse, weak enough to imply that she was now some kind of damsel in distress, oppressed under the clutches of the evil mage.

"If you really want to hear the truth, as you claim," she had then rushed to taunt, taking advantage of her muted disorientation, "then listen to this very well!"

The echo of that yell was still thundering in her head, loud like the bangs resounding in the basement. She had never felt so angry, defensive... And betrayed.

Lydia's nosiness was not because of some misplaced worry, like she wanted anyone to believe. Her visit had come with the clear intent of finding information to use against Miraak. Each day that passed, he was turning more and more from thorny inconvenience to major hassle for many nobles in Dragonsreach, since he had become the de facto advisor of Jarl Balgruuf. And she would bet anything that Lydia's father was itching to pay him back, after he had unmasked his crime in front of the whole court. There were no doubts about that, and so, she had simply told her what she had craved to hear.

"You are right. He should have killed me that time."

She had told her the truth.

"With no second thoughts."

Because it was not what Lydia had been expecting it to be.

"I robbed him of the only way out he had found after millennia."

That truth was not useful to her, and her visible dismay had further confirmed her suspicions.

"And if that wasn't enough, I spent all of my energies to break inside his prison with the sole intent of murdering him."

She should have stopped talking then, and just thrown Lydia out of their home, because she had already proven her point. They could not use her or their past to harm him in their vile court schemes. And instead, words had continued to flow unstoppable, pouring out from her uncontrollable mouth, as if a dam inside her mind had suddenly collapsed, letting every thought run away.

"I even made a pact with his jailer to increase my chances of success!"

Lydia had remained dumbstruck too, by her sudden passionate vehemence.

"I don't know how he could spare me, because after everything I did, I wouldn't have!"

No, she wouldn't have helped him, at all. She, in his place, would have devoured his Dragon Soul with no qualms, and fled away at the first chance.

"And yet, he preferred to remain stuck with me! To search for a way to escape together!"

"Because he needs you, you stupid fool!"

Lydia had interrupted her then, shouting as loud as her, her stoic composure completely crumbled, her green eyes wide and savage.

"To further his own schemes! Don't you see the way he is controlling all of your riches? How he climbed to the top in Dragonsreach, exploiting your position of Thane! He is already weaving his connections with the other holds, playing on your title of Dragonborn. Did he tell you that Bree? Did he?"

She had remained speechless after Lydia's tirade, but not because of what she had been surely imagining. Miraak needed those ties if he wanted to research a way to break Mora's pact. It was the only way he could get access to the private bookshelves of many noble collectors, so it wasn't surprising that he was playing all the cards in his hand. What stung her though, was that he had never hinted once about the swift extent of his social climbing. It was baffling, knowing his tendency to brag. And he had plenty of opportunities, before sleeping, when they indulged in small talk. Why was he keeping such things for himself? She on the other hand, told him everything about her training!

And then Lydia had continued her slandering with even more ferocity, mistaking her mute astonishment for silent confirmation.

"This has to stop Bree. You cannot let him control everything as he pleases, or go around pretending to be what he is not."

"What do you mean? He is Dragonborn too."

"You know very well what I mean! He did not slay Alduin, you did! You are the true Dragonborn, even if he claims to be the first!"

"What are you talking about? 'True'? He has a Dragon Soul, for Mara's sake!"

"For the Nine Divines, Bree! You have to open those eyes and face the truth, even if it hurts! He is just using you. And when he is be done, he will get rid of you."

For one tiny moment, Lydia's exasperation had truly seemed genuine, and for one tiny moment, her certainty had wavered. A heavy lump still formed in her throat, every time she remembered those hurtful words. But Lydia was wrong...

"What are you implying? That he is like all of you? That he stays with me only because I am the Last Dragonborn?"

She was completely wrong...

"Bree, why do you persist in thinking such-"

"Don't you dare to deny it! He, unlike any of you, truly appreciates me for who I am!"

He had given her ample proof of that after all that time... Every time...

"Because he loves me."

Her voice had audibly cracked then. It shouldn't have. She shouldn't have doubted for even a single instant that it could be otherwise...

"No matter what you say, he truly loves me."

It couldn't be otherwise...

"And he may not be perfect and he may have his moments, but I will always stay by his side, no matter how much you try to sow discord between us."

The ebony shield was almost completed. She caressed the unrefined contours, her gaze transfixed on its metallic sheen as she inspected the final work.

In all of those years, she had never dared to confess it to Miraak. The omnipresent guilt that still lingered in her chest for the gratuitous hate she had harboured then. For having fallen into Mora's trap like a fool. For all the grief it was still causing him. Telling him all of that would have been useless though. An apology solved nothing, and he would downplay it all as he usually did with a slight scoff, chiding her not to be such a ninny, and to stop depicting him as the saint he was not.

And now, she could not help but feel even more guilty, because despite all of her efforts, she could not squash that persistent seed of doubt.

 

 

**Sleeping Giant Inn - Riverwood**

 

Delphine, despite her undeniably adamant nature, had always considered herself a very patient woman. So patient, that she would even dare to say she could very well run for sainthood, if she had to share her opinion with someone else. What a sheer coincidence it was, though, to be so suspiciously alone, just when she needed a listening ear to vent on. She briefly scoffed at the great injustice of it all, and then resumed her scrubbing with even more vigour, while patiently waiting for Lydia's return.

Oddly enough Orgnar, that good-for-nothing helper of hers, found a safe haven just behind the kitchen, using the improbable excuse that he needed to review the inventory again. 'Because something was off', he had dared to mumble, not even looking straight at her.

'Something off' his bearded ass. She had personally drafted that list two days ago and it was perfect, a masterpiece of accountancy, if she could say so herself. That coward Esbern, on the other hand, thought it smarter to scuttle away to the farthest table from the counter and then bury his nose in one of those dusty Blade Annuals, as if the cover of a book could ever deflect even one of her implacable glares.

She paused her cleaning and haughtily lifted her head only to strike him with another chilling gaze, her simmering anger newly rekindled. The way he kept huddling up and hiding behind that book was just pathetic.

That old, spineless chicken. The least he could do was listen to her rants after what had happened yesterday. He owed her that, after his pitiful display of camaraderie. With companions like him she could very well fight all of her battles alone. That meek, hunched posture was not fooling anyone, however. It rotted of guilt from miles away.

A thin, sardonic smirk graced her lips, her tongue restless, tingling for some lash of coveted retribution. Yes, she could easily waltz over to him and make him feel even worse with some carefully picked cruel remarks. Such a tempting outlet he was, an immediate source of gratification she would have gladly reaped, if only her calculating mind did not deem it a very unwise move. She knew better than to alienate her only remaining ally in the Blades, and thus her only source of information.

She watched the pale sun of Frostfall from the window and let out an irritated scoff. It was almost dusk and Lydia had yet to arrive. Such tardiness was incredibly grating, yet it was mere trifle in comparison to the countless times she had wasted her time for nothing. Informants, smugglers and shady dealers that had never come. The best of her years vanished away, withering in some slum for a moribund cause. Hidden from anyone, like some criminal reject, all because of the damned Thalmor.

She knelt behind the counter and continued to quietly clean the shelf, her now dejected expression well-hidden from any indiscreet glance. Esbern, more than anyone else, should understand the helpless rage that was eating her inside. Their rightful place had been robbed from under their very noses. How he could calmly accept that, and then remain there, reading that useless book as if nothing wrong was happening to them, was truly incomprehensible to her.

That spectacle of precise military coordination was certainly not what they both had envisioned for the resurgent Blades. They had always been dragon hunters or underground agents at the service of the crown.

It had been a shock, then, entering Sky Haven Temple and finding all their recruits arranged in even rows of ten, training in synchrony with their Akaviri katanas like common mercenaries, under the orders of that shameless impostor. He had been comfortably sitting with the same countenance of a Jarl, on a Nordic marble throne just in front of Alduin's Wall, like he had some lordship over all of them. The outrageous complacency he had been exuding as he watched them! And then the sheer gall he had paraded in front of all the recruits, when he had claimed that his attitude was not only admissible, but even befitting of his role. That had been the infamous last straw, the unacceptable trespass that had snapped her proverbial nerves of steel.

And so she had left.

She, the one that had renounced years of life opportunities for the cause.

She, the one that invested all of her energies and resources to resurrect the Blades he was currently exploiting.

She, the rightful Grandmaster of the Blades, first belittled day after day, and then forced to leave, after voicing her full disapproval of that travesty. It had been humiliating, witnessing first hand how powerless and ostracised she had become in her own order, since the Dragonborn had delegated the leadership to that shrewd man. Nobody had stood by her side but Esbern, with his meek attempt at mediation. Not that treacherous drunkard Fultheim. Not even Annekke. They had just safely observed from afar, instead of picking any stance.

Those clueless fools, following that self-styled 'First Dragonborn' like a brood of faithful, groveling puppies. They, that sacrificed nothing for the return of the Blades, and joined only after everything was fine and dandy.

She grabbed an empty bottle of mead and almost broke it by the sheer force she exerted to put it under the counter. It was as clear as Kynareth's skies what this Miraak wanted to use the new Blades for, and it was obviously not for hunting the remaining dragons. How the Dragonborn could not see what was happening just under her very nose was truly...

She never finished that last embittered thought. The entrance door suddenly slammed loudly and her head immediately lifted up, faster than the lashing of a whip, her undivided attention locking onto the clad figure stepping inside the inn.

The Dragonborn's Housecarl was finally there. That day, for the first time since the unexpected return of the _Dovahkiin_ , her clear grey eyes brightened on the spot, widening in barely contained anticipation as they observed Lydia from afar, tiredly approaching Esbern's table.

Delphine knew what she had to do and did not hesitate, despite the potential loss of income she was certainly going to face. She dropped her rag and swiftly shooed their habitual old patrons out of the inn, before bolting all the doors and windows, so that no one else could come to eavesdrop on their chat or hear them by error. The slim possibility that the impostor could be tipped off about their little meeting was a chance she was not willing to take, not even if she was going to lose the earnings of a whole evening. She then quickly filled three mugs with Black-Briar mead and strode towards their table, sitting on the remaining empty chair.

"Did you run into him?" she questioned without preamble, before the Nord woman could even sip some of her mead. Lydia stopped, her sombre expression worsening to a resigned grimace. She then placed her untouched mug on the table without proffering a single clue, and stared intently at its amber liquid as though it contained all of the answers she was looking for.

"There was no need," she finally replied after some time, and Delphine almost snapped. Her feeble answer was alarmingly cryptic.

"What do you mean?" she prodded, unnerved. "Do not beat around the bush, woman. Out with it."

"What do you think?" Lydia lashed out with an unexpected cry, making Esbern choke on his own drink. "She took up the cudgels for him, exactly like I have been warning you all!" The pale lights from the sconce flickered wildly over her distressed face, and for a moment Delphine was taken aback by the raw emotion blazing in her eyes. "What were you expecting? Her prompt defection perhaps?" Lydia went on mockingly, uncaring of the older man's loud coughs. "It was useless and too late," she then muttered afflicted, her shoulders sagging against the chair as her head slowly shook in defeat. "Too late. She is all wrapped around his finger now."

"You were her Housecarl, Lydia!" Delphine spat, unable to refrain from hissing like a trodden snake. This were not the news that she was waiting to hear. Failure was not an option, they needed to get rid of the impostor in one way or another, and they absolutely needed the Dragonborn on their side. "You are the one that knew her best, that she trusted the most. You were supposed to know how to open her eyes!"

"I tried my best, Delphine," Lydia snapped defensively, "I told you over and over, she does not listen to me anymore now. She still believes I was in cahoots with my father, and there's no need to say who I have to thank for that."

"Courage," Esbern soothed her sombrely, slightly patting her arm. "I am sure that the Dragonborn will soon recognise your innocence. You just have to be more patient and wait, she is obviously not thinking clearly." The old Blade sipped some of his mead and then sighed knowingly, his stare lost in remembrance. "First love can be such an overwhelming experience, right Delphine?"

"How she can be so enamoured of him is truly beyond me!" the woman instead barked, truly irritated by Esbern's unintentional barb. "I've endured him for long enough and believe me, there is nothing worthy of loving in that fraud."

Miraak was just an incredibly arrogant man, too presumptuous and full of himself for his own good. She might have partly understood the girl's infatuation if he were at least young and handsome, for Dibella's sake, but the mage was at least twice her age. His features were certainly no more pleasant or captivating than those of the first average Nord they could have met in any town. So, no matter how much she racked her brain, she truly could not figure it out.

And if all of that was not off-putting enough, his eyes were disturbingly black, completely tainted from Daedric exposure. He had the audacity to brush it off as if it was nothing, boldly claiming to everyone that it was a consequence of the full awakening of his dragon blood. However, Lydia had already told them enough about the Dragonborn's misadventure in Apocrypha, so they did not fall for his obvious lie like all of the other dupes.

To her utter frustration, though, they had no other comparison, nor any reputable source of information, to disprove any of his claims.

They searched for weeks, almost a month, in all the surviving Blades archives for some trace of information, getting no significant results. And it was easy to deduce why, there simply had been nothing to report on. So she still remained cornered, her hands tightly tied up like a helpless fool, while Miraak ordered around as he pleased.

For the moment, though.

She nervously drummed her fingers in deep concentration, mulling again over their whole situation with cold detachment. She had to begrudgingly admit that Miraak was truly a hard nut to crack. Despite all of his grating flaws, he could exert a peculiar type of eloquent charisma, that paired with his suave mannerisms inevitably enthralled all the simpletons he deemed useful enough to lure to his side. But there had to be a scrap of solution somewhere, something that they had missed.

"But Delphine," Esbern mused loudly, breaking their long gloomy silence, "we have to acknowledge that he indeed masters the Thu'um, and even better than the Greybeards. You've seen it with your own eyes. He is... Well, impressive. Perhaps he truly is, after all, what he claims to be."

Delphine's lashing, no matter how tactfully the old man tried to be, was extreme and immediate. "Are you shifting to his side, now?" she spat, outraged.

"No, no!" Esbern hurriedly stepped off, vigorously shaking his head. "Of course not! I am just trying to reason on the facts, that's all!"

"You stupid man!" Delphine instead hissed, not in the least mollified by his sound logic. "After everything Lydia told us, you are still letting his charade fool you? How many times do I have to repeat myself? That impostor," she then howled, and the veins in her neck twitched from the sudden blood rushing in her red face, "is not the First Dragonborn! If he were," she continued, gritting her teeth as if she were spitting pure acid, "he would have completed the prophecy of the Elder Scrolls and not our Bree! Alduin would have been slain thousand of years ago! All of that Thu'um he keeps flaunting around, that 'Dragon Aspect'," she snarled, full of scorn, "he only learnt them through the pact he made with the Daedra of Knowledge!"

An eerie silence fell on the table, Esbern's closed off expression too difficult to read, until his flaccid wrinkles hardened into a stern frown.

"Do not forget, Delphine, that I would not be here, if I thought otherwise," he softly admonished, even though he was clearly offended.

"My apologies, Esbern," she tactically conceded, cold as steel. "My rage was obviously not meant towards you. This situation is slowly fraying my nerves." The old companion only nodded, but the tension lingering in the empty inn did not seem to decrease.

"So it is inevitable," she then declared after awhile, when it was obvious that nobody had any suggestion to share. "I will talk to the Dragonborn. I will put some sense into the girl." As usual she had to take matters in her own hands.

"Good luck with that then," Lydia snorted with derision. "You may have some chance if you enroll at Kynareth's temple."

"How so?" Esbern stepped in.

"If what Danica told me is true, she is in her fourth month."

"What?" Delphine could not help but blanch, gaping horrified at Lydia's cynical grimace. Their situation was worsening much faster than what she had previously foreseen.

 

 

**Whiterun – Breezehome**

 

Only when the rusted hinges slowly squeaked did all the strings of disheartening thoughts vanish. A rush of bubbling excitement instead came forth, fully awakening her dozy legs, and then lively eyes widened in the dark, blinking owlishly just for a brief moment of shy hesitation.

It was short-lived though. An unmovable determination knitted her brows as she quickly reminded herself that there was no room for a last second change of heart, she could not push it back anymore. She was absolutely going to pull it off that night, and make capital of the fact that he would certainly be too tired from hours of political discussions to properly shoot down her 'unnecessary meddling' again, as he liked to call it those days. And so she hurriedly pulled the covers over her head, her body contently snuggling under the warm pelts, as her lips twisted into an impish grin. This time that ridiculous pigheadedness of his would crack, she would make sure of it.

The door was cautiously shut and her stifled anticipation grew tenfold when well-known steps carefully creaked against the wooden floor and briefly halted in front of her, before moving away at the opposite side of the bed.

She did not act though, but remained unnaturally still, licking her lips nervously as her hearing gradually attuned to even the smallest of his quiet movements. It was better that way if she wanted a chance, to slip when his guard was still down instead of directly tackling the issue as usual, inevitably raising all of his walls. And so she patiently waited, using every hint she caught to decide when was the best moment to pounce.

The dull snap of what seemed to be a candlelight sphere bounced over the carpet, its familiar soothing hum filling the silence, while some drawers quietly opened and closed. Soon the rustle of discarded clothes reached her ears, and a light bump of carefully laid boots followed suit, before his side of the bed finally sank down.

He did not get any chance to finish his stifled yawn, nor to touch the nightshirt laying neatly in his lap, even less to turn his head, when he noticed a suspicious shifting of pelts behind him. And how could he, with a heavy mass unexpectedly crashing against his back? Only an embarrassing surprised yelp left his chest, together with his knocked-out breath, and then a disgruntled mumble of comprehension, when slim yet strong arms treacherously slipped around his waist, clutching him tightly. Perhaps she could concede that her hugs were sometimes a little bit too impetuous. But just a bit.

"Don't," she whispered before he could utter anything in outrage, her voice intentionally sopping with that kind of alluring sweetness she knew would douse any possible reproach. To her great satisfaction it seemed to never fail, even this time. A deep weary sigh replaced what would surely have been a scathing scolding, while his back just leaned against her chest, and the lingering tension in his weary muscles gradually started to fade.

A melancholic smile brushed his hair and then nuzzled quietly against his neck. There was no need for words, she could feel it from the cheek pressing over his hunched shoulder, that Miraak was truly exhausted this time. A lulling caress wrapped the back of his hand and small fingers subtly entwined with his larger ones, just to trap them still in their soft grasp.

She hesitated for a moment, a fleeting gush of stagnant guilt holding back her wandering hand, when she remembered how many hours he had been spending lately transmuting ores, but nonetheless she went on. She not only longed for him, but she also wanted to know, and so she tugged at his folded nightshirt with deliberate slowness. And yet, even though it was clearly an unmistakable provocation, she met no resistance from his loosened hold, nor heard any evasive words of rejection. The cloth just slipped off his lap and simply pooled on the floor.

"And so you waited," he murmured quietly, a trace of drowsiness seeping through, despite his obvious effort to keep a firm tone. "Stubborn woman," he then added with a touch of gruffness when he turned her palm, lazily tracing its lines with his thumb. "You need to rest."

"And you do too," she protested, slightly reproachful. The tip of her nose grazed the skin of his neck, inhaling the cherished lingering of parchment and musk as they remained there, embraced in comfortable stillness, until her mellow whisper filled the silence again.

"Did you like the chaurus pie?" This time she was sure to have followed all the instructions correctly.

"So it was chaurus." She could bet he almost groaned, but then a deep, exasperated sigh followed suit. "Really, Bree..." And then he just shook his head. "Well, that explains the eggs on the floor," he grumbled to himself.

"Oops. I'm sorry?"

"I almost tripped on one." His surly complaint drifted to an endearing plaintive edge though, and so she could not stifle a little chortle, swiftly earning a light reproaching nudge and a telling grunt. Miraak could be such an order freak sometimes.

"I will clean everything tomorrow morning," she hurried to mollify him, even though some smothered giggles were still thickening her quiet murmur. There would be other, more favourable opportunities to mercilessly tease him. "You won't even have to lift a finger, really," she assured with a not-so-convincing peck on his cheek. "So? Did you like it?" she prodded, conveniently veering from the topic.

"Well, it was... Particular," he answered vaguely. A bit too vaguely. She just sighed loudly, for once refraining from whining over useless ovens, unclear recipes, or the dubious quality of many merchants' goods. Well, he was always claiming that it was her effort that mattered to him after all, thus she proceeded with her next step of the plan.

"I miss you," she candidly admitted out of the blue. For some unfathomable reason, such blunt confessions always had an effect on him. Perhaps it would be enough to make him budge from his stupid decision. "Let me come."

"It is not safe," he immediately replied, too used to her predictable ambushes by then. However, even if he now managed to remain uncompromisingly stern, they still continued to produce that peculiar, almost imperceptible waver in his voice. Oh yes, she grinned, her lips now only an inch away from his ear, he could not easily deceive her like once before anymore. That sounded decidedly more raspy, and it was a very good sign.

"Then stay here," she suggested invitingly.

"We've already discussed this, Bree. It is not possible." To her dismay, however, this time he not only cut off her attempt, firmly nipping it at the bud, but the unconcealed weariness of touching that topic again was also unusually transparent, from the way his hands were tightly clasping her own. "Just be patient. All will be over in a few months."

That damnable research.

The Blades' training.

All of those War Council reunions in Dragonsreach.

His growing meetings with all of those court mages.

And then all those trips to Winterhold, while she was stuck at home, bored stiff because of some baseless dangers he read in some restoration books, when she was still strong and healthy like a mountain bear!

She could not stand it anymore.

The temptation to bristle and throw one of her usual fits was strong, pressing and foaming in her agitated blood, and yet she surprisingly kept her temper firmly in check, only snorting resentfully in the pitch darkness of the room. If there was one thing that she had learnt from her daily fights against Miraak's pigheadedness, it was that a few well-aimed sweet words could do more wonders than hours of hoarse, raving shouts.

"I don't want to!" And so she shamelessly pouted. "Don't you see?" she continued uncharacteristically meek, as she slowly dragged him to lie on the pelts. "I want you here," and her disarrayed hair grazed his cheekbones like a thin curtain, "with me." A subtle yet deep intake left his nostrils, and a large hand nestled in her mane. His nose pressed behind her ear, inhaling her scent, and she smiled knowingly, happy to observe that Arcadia's perfumed lotion was proving to be worth every septim of its value.

"I know what you are trying to do," he whispered, though, with an unexpected rough edge, a sharp undercurrent dangerously replacing his soothing deep inflection. Hot puffs of breath warmed her ear and shivers ran down her spine, as his mouth pressed against her neck. "Do you really think so little of me? That I could be so easily swayed?" Scorching resentment slithered from his tired reproach, and she could not help but flinch in contrition, as he shredded her premeditated, yet inoffensive little scheme with misleading calm. "I am not your fool yet, Dragonborn."

Damn. Of course he had to misunderstand everything and take it in the worst way possible.

"Don't be silly," she softly chastised, mustering all of her patience and good will. She had promised herself that she would remain calm this time, for his own good. "It is not only about that, and you know it. I am too proud, remember?" She had to put some reason in that stubborn will of his, though, one way or another. "Is it so difficult to believe that I want to spoil you sometimes?" And to further prove her point, she took his hand and guided it over the silky material of her chemise, until it rested over her breast.

"You wore it," he uttered, surprised as his fingers traced the embroidered contours of a revealing décolleté. There was only one improper garment that she had ever owned, and it was the very one that he had dared to bring home after one of his trips to Solitude, a month ago. To improve her tastes, he had justified the gift then, with a touch of grouchy conceitedness that invariably had sent her ballistic. Obviously after such a barb she had screamed obscenities at the top of her lungs and then refused to try it on even once, just to spite him for his outrageous gall. Until that night, and only for a worthy cause. She grinned sheepishly at the memory, thankful that the thick darkness for once was playing in her favour.

"Well," she prompted alluringly, when he did not cast any magelight, "don't you want to get a peek?"

"Bree... I..." He paused, his voice unusually uncertain, as if he was looking for the right way to utter his next words. "I am too tired for this," he admitted uncharacteristically bluntly, letting out a spent sigh.

"Exactly," she however took him aback, fervently agreeing and not in the least angry. In fact she seized that golden opportunity to lean down and hush his startled mouth with a soft kiss. "You are always so tired," she continued, emboldened when his lips sluggishly responded back, and the hand on her breast slowly descended to quietly rest on her back. "So tense all the time..." Her moistened mouth also descended to playfully bite his neck, eliciting a soft, almost inaudible grunt that spurred her even more. "Just stay at home and relax with me," she suggested sultrily, uninhibited, between trails of heartfelt hungry kisses.

"Why," he quietly uttered under her assault, sounding almost astonished by her impetuousness, "why do you insist so much?" As if her unbridled passion made little sense. How self-centred. He was the one exhausted all the time, not her.

"Because," she rasped hotly, her moist lips lightly nibbling his earlobe, "you think that I'm too oblivious to ever notice," and then slightly turned to one side, her face still snuggled against the crook of his neck.

"How truly distressed you are," with the he tip of her tongue still teasing the receptive spot behind his ear.

"That something is clearly wrong," and the softness of her lips still brushing his sensitised skin.

"What is happening, Miraak?"

His breath halted.

"Nothing." His clipped dismissal was too quick to be truly convincing, though. Her palm left his taut, broad shoulder and softly slid down, to caress his exposed torso, her alert fingertips capturing every slight shiver that discreetly travelled through his hairy skin.

He was finally slipping.

"Tell me," she coaxed, her voice turning to liquid honey, as her head shifted down to rest over his chest. Her restless hand continued to wander aimlessly in the dark, temptingly fondling his tensed pectoral muscles, as her ear gradually attuned to the rhythmical cadence of his heartbeat. "You know I worry for you."

"I've already told you, over and over. There is nothing." That distant, detached inflection rumbled also inside his chest, concealing for a moment his slow yet steady beat. "Nothing of importance. Nothing you should ever be worried about," he then repeated again with that same deadpan murmur of his, almost as if he was trying more to convince himself, rather than her. Her hand meandered lower as she pondered, following distractedly the ruts between his ribs, until it rested on the contracted muscles of his tense abdomen.

"Please, Miraak." She dropped every pretence of flirtation and resorted to simply implore, letting the tip of her growing exasperation seep through. She was so tired of always flailing for a hint in the dark, blindly looking for some tatter of truth or spending so much effort to carve a crack in his inscrutable behaviour, just because he reckoned she should not be bothered by anything remotely stressful. Stupid pregnancy. It was his new favourite excuse for everything.

He said nothing, a discouraging silence ruling supreme in the chilly room, but his usually calm heartbeat unexpectedly quickened. She blinked, puzzled, as she remained still, barely daring to breathe while she attentively listened to it and a glimmer of hope returned, refilling her discouraged will with more strength. That agitated beat could not lie to her, she may have been on the right track for once, and the only missing step could be just one final push. And so her fingers halted in brief hesitance, before daring to slip further down.

"Don't," he muttered with a strained yet husky edge, doing nothing, however, to stop her fingers from slowly unfastening the loosened knot of his trousers. "I consumed too much magicka today," he managed to add before his breath flinched at her sudden grasp. The liar, she thought, piqued, while her palm wrapped around an unexpectedly very swollen erection. So he was trying to flee only because for once she had some advantage over him. And yet the notion left her mildly perplexed. She had done nothing too special, not even half of what she had been painstakingly planning, to elicit such a violent response, especially since he was too tired.

"But there's more right?" she carried on, immovable and yet misleadingly gentle, exposing his thick arousal to the cold air.

"Bree..." he just whispered, strangely resigned, and yet sounding almost pleading, as if he was unsure about what kind of respite to beseech for.

"Just let it go," she went on anyway, even sweeter yet unrelenting, denying him both, as her fingers fluttered down, tracing the veins protruding from his length with torturing softness. "Just get it off of your chest. Please." Her delicate lulling carried that exquisite pledging note he always longed to hear, but her hold abruptly tightened, just as his twitching hardness silently craved, mercilessly stroking its whole length again with unbearable slowness.

"I may have..." His stolid yet feeble growl was now barely discernible from the wild racing of his telling heartbeat. "I suspect that..." He halted, his chest slowly expanding and then slightly flinching under her ministrations, before letting out a long troubled sigh. "There may be a... Complication."

Finally. He was finally caving.

"Yes, go on, my _morwuld,_ " she prodded, licking her lips in barely contained excitement as her sly fingers eagerly stroked his length. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

An eerie long silence filled the room again, broken only by the irregular rhythm of his heavy breathing.

"Delphine keeps questioning my authority," he then calmly revealed as if it were nothing, and her fondling faltered for a moment. No, it could not just be something so simple as that, right? Delphine was always bossing everyone around and being her usual annoying self. There was certainly something more. And yet... Knowing how domineering and touchy his attitude could be... And then, knowing Delphine... Oh, Dibella. It made so much more sense. So that's why he had been spending so much of his energies with the Blades, instead of taking some days to rest like he should. Only to keep the Grandmaster in her place. The unbelievable idiot.

"Just be patient with her," she cooed, relief coursing in her voice as she straddled him and leant down, blindly looking for his lips. "I know it's difficult, but the Blades are her everything, just like you are to me."

"Am I now?" His weary tone was slightly sceptical, and so she playfully bumped his forehead with hers, before denying any possible doubt with a deep kiss.

"Of course, silly! How many times do I have to tell you so?"

"Then show it," he growled with a peremptory aggressiveness that surprised her a bit. So the sleepy dragon could still bite. Maybe she had been taking advantage of his lethargy a bit too much. Or maybe not.

"Mm. Like this?" she questioned mischievously, as she gently guided his hardness between her legs, until the tip finally dipped into her. The thrill to see how far she could push his boundaries before he snapped was too compelling by now.

"Use the Dragon Aspect," she then coaxed with barely hidden imperiousness, as her tight folds slowly engulfed his whole length. "I want to devour you all," and her hips wobbled, provoking a deep, delicious groan, before he finally acquiesced to her request with clipped, almost inaudible words of power.

The flames were vivid, their peculiar heat so inebriating, too luminous, almost blinding after so many hours of complete blackness, and his half-lidded gaze, those enthralling black eyes, were full of that lustful warmth she always craved to see in them. Even though they were haggard they never tore away from her, and she felt attractive again, desirable and delightfully powerful.

And yet it was not enough. Having full rein like that was not enough.

" _Neliik_." And his curt order made her realise as much.

"Oh... You mean like this?" she saucily taunted, purposefully slowing her rocking even more.

" _Neliik, miil!_ " he hissed hoarsely, almost snapping, and she shuddered. Teasing him like that was too much fun, and he must have caught the devious glint of merriment shining in her eyes, because he seized her bottom and squeezed it in warning, eliciting a small yelp of surprise.

And yet it was still not enough. Teasing him like that was not enough.

"Then say it!" she instead taunted as she rocked even more slowly, shamefully boasting the little control she had, exactly like he usually did. "That you love me." She slowly pronounced each syllable, savouring the sweet taste of payback. "Say it!" The slumbering dragon never disappointed, however, and he immediately bristled back just as she was expecting, sharply ripping out the reins from her impudent lead.

Nails clawed against his shoulders and legs helplessly flailed around his hips when the sudden weight of his frame crashed on her, squashing her back against the pelts and keeping her still under his furious thrusts. He sank deeper and deeper, unrelenting as she whimpered, his fast erratic breathing shuddering against her mane from the impetuous effort, as if he was plunging into something coveted and more distant, buried far beyond the warmth of her narrow vice. The feeble yet drumming chant of ancient times echoed again, growing thrust after thrust, louder and unstoppable, and her eyelashes fluttered, vision blurring away as the last scraps of reason pleasantly drowned in the turbulent flames of the Dragon Aspect and the undeniable lust of his rough grunts.

And yet all of that passion was not enough. That thirst-quenching fire was never fulfilling enough.

And so she clutched even more tightly against him, her insatiable body devouring every flame that seeped through her skin, just like the voracious hunger between her legs, swallowing every inch of invasive hardness that kept dunking over and over inside her.

And yet it was still not enough. Being overwhelmed like that was still not enough.

And so her hands desperately gripped his hair to press her cheek against his, as she fumbled to capture his parted rough lips. His mouth, however, only grazed hers for an instant, a wet trail scorching her jawline, until it lingered over her ear.

" _Hi los lok, dii brii,_ " his deep delicious voice simply whispered.

And her wings finally soared.

 

 

**Darkwater Crossing**

 

The flames of the campfire dazzled vividly, their fluttering tongues a scorching clash against the hefty dampness of the chilly night. It was past midnight, too late for early risers to remain awake, and yet those miners were still there, hovering around her unrelentingly. Like a colony of noisy bees, all clustered together around their precious honeycomb.

And the uninhibited sound of her laugh filled the pungent air again, its limpid sincerity too distinctive even from that far distance to be easily ignored. A predictable burst of sycophantic guffaws then followed suit, and her laugh was lost anew, in another sea of indiscernible noise.

Part of her visage could still be glimpsed through the gaps of their pressed bodies, though, and those flashes of pure elation were now impossible to misconstrue anymore. How she drank it all, every drop of their lavished attention, like a stranded moribund that finally found her fresh gushing well. The bursting joy in her smile could not dim the truth reflected so plainly in her face: she was so relieved to be among them. There was a contentment, a refulgent gaiety, that he had never seen before. His gloved hand, well hidden under his crossed arms, tightened in a tense fist.

It happened fast, and it was just a gleam.

A golden spark that glistened in the dark.

It shone for an instant, a mere tickle in the corner of her eye, and yet it immediately disrupted her concentration, misleading her sight to a seemingly empty corner, just like some reckless lunar moth lured by the call of an irresistible beacon.

Her gaze lingered there, twirling around black, pitch darkness as she nodded at some other inconsequential question just thrown in her way, and so she got lost, inside these indistinguishable shadows of a giant tree she knew was surely there, raising to the skies somewhere. It took some time for her eyes to finally adjust, focus on the little, subtle nuances, and capture all the pale lights that flickered first against elaborate pauldrons, then the scaled gauntlets of his crossed arms, and finally on all of those golden threads, finely embroidered in all of his once expensive robes.

His head lightly tilted up then, as if he felt her buzzing around. She stopped in mid-bite, the dry sweet-roll slowly melting against her sticky mouth when blank slits locked with her stare. She moistened her lips self-consciously, and the unreachable expression of his shadowed mask simply looked back, as if it could plainly see beyond her antics and get the whole picture despite it all.

Every shimmering shade of her lurking malaise.

And a spiteful surge, an irrepressible desire to slowly dole out sweet and satisfying retribution, quaked from the recesses of her very being.

She quickly shifted her eyes away, and instead nodded reassuringly at whatever this excited child in front of her, Hrefna, persisted into telling her. A frozen smile was now carved into her lips, but she continued with the farce nonetheless, answering all of the girl's naive questions and accepting more of her flattened, old sweets as if she had never been aware of the aloof presence brooding under that tree.

As if no ill thoughts of petty revenge were now polluting her waning goodwill.

Thankfully though, Hrefna's mother Tormir came to her aid and took her away, because it was becoming impossible to overlook the brewing storm that was inexorably expanding inside her head, and all because of his fault. And may he be damned for that headache too, she mutely hissed through another congenial smile, to Namira and also the Dread Lord! She could not stand that palpable tension, all of those mood swings of his and this... This _everything_ anymore!

She had wondered also that night, how many times he'd gotten a concussion in that bloated, dense head of his, to reach the conclusion that behaving like an ungrateful, ill-mannered, and elitist misfit was such a viable and clever social norm! Not only had he presumed that a voiceless, cursory nod was adequate to thank the miners for their more than generous hospitality, but he had also had the pure brilliance to plainly desert her.

Yes, exactly like that! Indeed marooned like some... Some undesired stowaway, with no second thoughts, and in the moment she needed him most to boot, when she had to fend for herself, all alone, against a pounding of interminable and intrusive questions. So, instead of being a chivalrous, decent being and helping her as he should have done, he shamelessly took advantage of the situation and freely roamed behind their backs, subtly picking the best of foods he found around the fire without any shame, only to then thin out behind some safe shadow and dine all by himself, as if everything was perfectly fine, when they were supposed to entertain their hosts! And then, as if all of that was just not enough, he kept lurking around the camp and glaring from afar for the whole night, as if they were all plagued by Peryite himself, or worse. Perhaps _morokei Miraak_ just considered himself far beyond talking or mingling with any of the unworthy common rabble.

The stupid imbecile!

And so, as she seethed over his inexcusable display of rude snobbery, she listened to the good mine owner Verner with only half an ear - and with good reason, moreover. Her evaporated good mood was now too inconsistent to pull out any feigned interest for his ridiculous praises of the Stormcloaks, and actually all that rigmarole of his in the end pushed her to drift further and further away, toward echoes of a terse remark that she really desired so much to simply ignore and forget.

'That's what you believe,' he had murmured behind her, with a softness that had only sharpened the painful stab he had inflicted with absolutely no consideration. And of course she, as the total fool she was, had not dared to press for any explanation when they had resumed their travel. It had been a choice of pure and simple cowardice – yes, she would admit that, dictated by the possible catastrophic effects of a blunt answer she had not wanted to ever face, and so she had matched his voiceless seething with an equally distant and barren silence broken only by quick, loud steps, even if in her mind she had been screaming, and accusing, and repeating over and over and over fragments of memories that just refused to leave her be.

Thankfully then, a sly and timely sarcastic retort cut off Verner's adoring speech, putting a definitive end to his long and tedious monologue, to everyone's utter relief. What mildly surprised her, though, was that it came from the most unexpected of sources: his furious wife Annekke.

So why, she sighed to herself nonetheless, completely ignoring the passionate domestic drama that was just exploding in front of her, why had he gone and said that, and ruined their new, perfect start in Nirn, when everything could have been going perfectly fine! And then, what did that mean anyway? That he doubted her sincerity? After all those years, when she had done nothing to deserve any ounce of his mistrust!

Yes, nothing at all!

The old couple, had to drag her into their mess, though, and ask about the 'stance of the Dragonborn' on a stupid matter she could not care less about. And so, after hastily declaring her complete neutrality on their ongoing civil war, she safely withdrew from the whole discussion. As if she would ever be so dumb as to get implicated in a quarrel between husband and wife.

The overlapping of voices soon became again a jumble of noisy gibberish, and her mind could soon retreat back to darkly ruminate in peace. And to think that she had just wanted to spend a nice day and have some decent fun for a chance.

The unfairness of it all.

And that night, to make matters worse, was also the first occasion she had after years of complete isolation to spend in the company of some old, friendly faces. Years! But she could not enjoy it as fully as she had imagined during their journey, because as usual _he_ had to muck it all up, uttering some horrible statement with baffling nonchalance and then going on as if nothing ever happened, or that it perturbed him in the slightest. When instead she was...!

She was reduced to..!

Did she dare to call it with its proper name? She had been pining. And struggling and distressing and whining in her head.

A wave of indignant rage clouded her judgement, but she quickly concealed it, conveniently drinking from her refilled cup. Not that her hosts would have ever noticed anything though, they were now all too entertained at laughing at some silliness Sondas Drenim, the only Dunmer in their settlement, was retelling with colourful gesticulations to swiftly defuse a very explosive argument, especially when Stormcloak patrols were roaming just nearby. Pity, though, that his heartfelt efforts were not reaching her restless thoughts, because maybe all of her vivid conjectures were just big, inconsistent leaps of crazy imagination, and Miraak was just displaying that typical male recoiling to anything remotely akin to a lifetime of commitment...

The despicable turncoat!

If he was already having second thoughts, the least the unreliable milksop could have done was grow some balls and tell her so! Or even better, go straight to the Void, for how much she cared about it!

Indeed. Why was she even bothering at all? After all, she had never really needed him. Absolutely! Never once. That was the truth. From the very beginning, it had always been the other way around!

And it was still the other way around, right?

Right! So who in Oblivion did he think he was, to treat her in such way?

That ungrateful lecher!

But she would soon show him. Oh yes, make him quickly remember how things really were! Throwing in that odious, impassible face of his how much she too could not give a damn, whenever she wanted. Starting now, just like he did!

And so, that was why she did not simply excuse that poor Argonian, Derkeethus, when he so conveniently stumbled over her. Instead she practically dragged the poor fellow to sit with her, purposefully cupping his hands and flashing the most simpering of smiles, while he stammered unintelligible apologies with a ridiculous violet and swollen face.

Or why then, despite a certain Atmoran's peculiar aversion to Dunmer folkmen, she not only showered Sondas with an inexplicable overabundance of complimentary interest, but deliberately walked towards the befuddled elf and snuggled next to him, to then ostentatiously murmur some pointless comment in his grey ear.

Oh yes, she had been purposefully fooling around with the sole, unique intention of spiting him to no end.

It was when she started to loudly sing and actively come up with the most equivocal tavern tunes she knew of, however, that Miraak not only left his concealed spot, but disappeared from the whole camp.

And she glanced suspiciously around her, then everywhere, first at every dark, half-hidden corner, then at any insignificant change among some thick foliage she could catch. There was nothing, however. He was nowhere to be seen, and to her jittery yet ecstatic thrill, very little doubts remained then.

He had responded. In some roundabout way, that silent retreat was the unavoidable answer to her direct provocation, and thus that meant she had finally brought her message home. He was not so untouchable as he wanted to believe, and her actions could easily make all the difference and ruffle his feathers, too, just like his!

That unique, delectable tingle of accomplishment did not last too long though, because at the end of her last racy song, Sondas Drenim wriggled a bit out of her death-like grip and leaned a bit more forward, to mumble something in her ear.

"Are you sure you feel well, Dragonborn?" he enquired almost rhetorically, while he meaningfully eyed the almost empty contents of her forgotten mug. "You are acting a bit different from our last encounter."

Oh, really. And how could he even remember to compare?

"Nonsense. I am perfectly fine." But of course, how could she forget. Asking someone to do some irrelevant errands was a sure way to know everything about their character.

"Does that mean then," he asked though with veiled yet elated surprise, as if the mere idea he was suggesting was preposterous, "that it is not the warmness of the ale that makes you so well-disposed to me?"

"What? Are you perhaps calling me a milk-drinker?" She just replied back in a huff, without further thought. Now that her objective was completed, all that farce was getting tiresome and really fast. She just wanted to say her farewells and go inside Anneke's hut to finally slip off the new boots.

"No, of course not," he just went on, though, not taking the hint at all. Typical. "It is just, that I would have never imagined..." And then he just stopped, only to resume with a new, alien glint in those usually critical eyes, that to her growing astonishment she immediately identified, because it was the same look _he_ threw at her all the time.

"It is very late nonetheless..."

Exactly the same one.

"...And I know a quieter place where we could retire, if you so desire."

Oh Akatosh and Dibella!

A rosy, gracious tint grazed her pale cheeks, even if she could barely register the full meaning of his simple words, especially when he then delicately lifted her hand, and soft yet dry lips pressed on her knuckles for what seemed an inexhaustible stretch of eternity. Impressed in time, like the flowery, printed descriptions from all of those exciting narrations she had avidly read behind Miraak's back, after adventuring once in one of those secluded aisles he had specifically told her to stay away from.

The Dunmer's long, thin eyebrow then elegantly arched in muted question, but she just continued to gape back, blinking confusedly at him, because what was happening was simply not possible.

Sondas Drenim was part of that group who knew very well who she really was: a volatile and deceptively dangerous creature; the proverbial loose cannon; the troublesome and unmanageable _Dragonborn_. Nobody lightly meddled with her when the hazardous possibility of incurring her wrath constantly loomed over their necks. Sadly, the infamy of her capricious nature often preceded her.

And then, there was also the fact that he had also watched her fight, and Shout, and kill off all alone whole groups of veteran highwaymen with those very same slanted eyes that were now inconceivably longing at her, as if she truly were the daintiest flower of some imaginary knightly court.

Imagine – Her, covetable! When he was just supposed to be extremely tolerant, and simply put up with any of her outlandish and often pushy quirks like anyone else in Skyrim! If not from a genuine feeling of gratitude, at least from a sense of common self-preservation.

She did not get the time to fully grasp the extraordinary, brand-new concept that was being properly wooed, however, and even less to formulate any kind of acceptable answer to stutter back with becoming shyness, because a violent, raw force yanked her arm from her back, roughly pushing her away from the elf and the small bench, before she could even squeak anything in dumbstruck outrage.

"You," and a very familiar and disdainful, yet deceptively cool voice slowly uttered as she blanched from sheer shock, "will certainly do nothing of the sort." His large back then came between them, suddenly covering her whole view with the bulky form that ominously towered over the disconcerted elf.

"As this woman is already committed," Miraak then drawled out of the blue, as if he were just commenting on the coldness of the current weather. "She is my consort. Or did the Dragonborn perhaps neglect to mention that?" he added, pure mordancy smoothly rolling from his tongue. "Ah, such carelessness. Indeed," he then congenially nodded to all those who were now attentively overhearing, "I am her novel commitment." And his mask then pointedly tilted to look at her, joining the accusing, silent glare of a very incensed Sondas Drenim.

She should have blabbered something in her defence then, because damn it, all of that had not really been her fault! _He_ had been the one that had started it all, _he_ had been the one with the intolerable behaviour! _Him_!

However, an unsettling and odd silence chilled the usually lively camp. A myriad of intrusive and critical eyes were now studying her growing crimson face, a hot red coal that furiously blazed not from sheer embarrassment or sudden bashfulness, but from utter and unadulterated, frothing rage, because she was no idiot!

_Consort_ indeed! And to make matter worse, that shamelessly one-sided, completely false statement of his did not contain a single drop of redeeming romanticism! It was instead clearly again all about control, about who between them really held the upper hand, and thus in the end could truly exert power over it all. In the end, it was just his petty, underhanded retaliation for her cheeky pretence of complete disregard, pulling off such a despicable stunt that was tantamount to a public declaration of crass ownership. As if he truly had some claim upon her, and her say in the matter counted for absolutely nothing at all!

"You, come with me now. We need to talk." And he also had the gall to order her around, with some deep, frosty edge, pretending he was the one that had just been undermined in front of everyone, and not otherwise!

"No!" And she immediately matched his dangerous hiss, the most hateful of sneers defying his very command.

"Very well," he unexpectedly relinquished with ostensible and questionable calm, finally letting go of her wrist and oddly not countering what was an obvious taunt. Instead he did not utter anything else, but merely sustained her frightening glare for some time, until he abruptly turned and just walked away to retreat inside Annekke's hut, lulling her in a false sense of triumph for a very brief and fleeting moment.

It was only when she acknowledged the disapproving frown in the not so understanding face of Verner's wife, that what Miraak had really achieved started to fully sink in.

"You, young lady," Annekke vocally berated as she unceremoniously pointed towards her hut, "will go inside and settle all your squabbles with your husband, now! "

With only one phrase.

"And no buts! I expected far better from you!"

She was being... Chided. And some of the other miners were even nodding approvingly at the harsh reproof. What in Oblivion..?

"That poor man," Annekke then huffed, pulling her not so gently to the sides to mumble at her conspiratorially. "Do not think that I have no idea what you were doing with Sondas over there!" And she could not even truly talk back as she so itched, because her accommodating hostess was also part of the new Blades. The last thing she wanted was to already get into trouble with Delphine in some way.

"In front of everyone like that! Are you out of your mind? If I did something like that to Verner..!"

It was only then that she suddenly realised, while Annekke kept throwing needless pearls of marital advice to 'make up' without losing too much face at her, despite her more than eloquent pout, that with just one and well timely placed remark, Miraak not only managed to portray her as the evil doer of the whole situation, but gained with one, shrewd move the sympathy of all the bystanders. They now all considered him like some sort of overly indulgent companion, that for baffling reasons endured the Dragonborn's insensitive vagaries with stoic grace.

That conniving bastard!

And so she hurriedly marched toward the small hut, and not because of Annekke's prompt shove. Oh no, there was a much better reason indeed. As they all said, it was time to settle things up. Yes, she was finally going to burn her dear 'husband' to a little, unrecognisable crisp.

"How could you!" she boomed the very moment the door slammed behind her.

"Manipulative cad! Deceiving cheat! How could you do that to me!"

"To me! Like that, out of the blue! And in front of EVERYONE!"

"I'm talking to you, damn it Miraak!"

And her palm also slammed over his map, but to no avail.

He just continued to ignore her.

Not a grunt of displeasure vibrated behind his unfeeling mask, nor any telling sign of acknowledgement escaped from the tiniest of gestures. Once again there were none, and so another quiver of liquid hot rage scalded her body, while her murderous eyes shifted to glare at the vial of ink she had just flipped over. Its fresh contents spread all over the parchment, smearing the northern confines the insufferable man kept staring at, and nonetheless, even if a giant stain now blotched the majority of his spiky notes, he still denied her the satisfaction of snapping back at her.

Thus neutralising all the weapons at her disposal with a single act.

And how much she loathed it! No words could convey how deeply she resented him when he did that. Every time, he resorted to employing that disarming silence of his against her – every single accursed time! As if he were punishing some misbehaving child, instead of listening to a displeased woman who was worthy of his full attention.

And so she just seethed there while glaring daggers at him, and awaiting like a saber for the slightest sign of subsidence to swoop on, because eventually he had to turn around and speak to her. Sooner or later he had to recognise his shortcomings and regret his callous misdeeds. By hook or crook, or may Nocturnal claim her shadow on the spot!

But none of his muscles moved or twitched even once, to her utter frustration: not his bent shoulders, nor his stretched arms, not even one of the large hands, firmly pressed against the old table. He simply stood there, leaning over a useless map like a dried cod, even though palpable tension strung his whole form, like a drawn bow ready to shoot.

And yet no barrage sprung from his lips.

Not a single dart left his unforgiving mouth, and the mere suspicion of what was the real reason behind it ignited her tongue with the most toxic and corrosive fuel.

"Very well," she rasped thickly, a defiant snort flaring from her nostrils, "keep on with your pathetic charade!"

That was it. He was never going to get any more concessions from her.

"Keep flaunting how much you can't care at all!"

She had poured out all of her heart to him – Her heart! And what did she get in exchange? A foul mood to endure like the meekest of maidservants, without a hint of genuine affection in return!

In the end, lavishing him with all of those praises had been a colossal mistake.

"Do you know what?"

To think she had even plainly told him she loved him just hours ago, and he had yet to reply anything at all. _Anything_. If only she could have been the wiser and kept her mouth shut. Now there was no way she could withdraw any of that.

"I am tired of this."

But she would never beg for some crumbles of his affection.

Not even if all the scales were now tipped in his favour.

Not even if it was the bitter outcome she deserved for her own stupidity, because only a daft idiot would corner herself in such a way, baring her soul to a man that had no qualms about exploiting any weakness, if it meant to increase or solidify his own position.

"Yes, go on!"

She was completely out of control.

"Ignore me!"

Unacceptably helpless.

"Keep looking at your stupid map!"

Disgracefully needy.

And for what? To gain a passing and deceptive advantage.

"Go to Oblivion, Miraak!"

There really was no turning back. No matter which silly trick or tantrum she resorted to throw at him.

"It is over! OVER! Do you get that? I am fucking done with you!"

And after that bold declaration she stormed out of the cabin, dashing away as a river blurred her sight. Or at least that's what would have happened, if her eyes had not caught his slip.

Fleeting yet glaring, like the sizzling spark from a simmering coal.

Yes, it had been the simple shake of his shoulders that made her hesitate. However it was only when she also noticed how his hands clenched into tight fists, that an overwhelming rush of malignant exhilaration blended with her inner uproar, completely annihilating what little survived of her common sense. He had, albeit unwillingly, conceded to her a reaction that revealed the proverbial crack in his wall. It was only the hint of his yielding that hooked her back, with the irresistible allure of impending victory.

"Done, is that clear?" And thus she resumed her rattlebrained charge. "With you, your moods, and your pathetic jealousy!" So focused had she been though on finding the way to hurt him the most, that she completely missed the odd, stiff way he abruptly straightened up. "It is not my fault if I am the beloved one!" But the moment she exhumed that trite topic she razed down the unmentionable threshold. "If it is me and only me, the celebrated hero, and not the other way around!" And he turned faster than a whiplash, the void slits of his mask pinned on her as if they could incinerate both her and her scorn with their glare alone.

"It was not me who threw all of your chances away!" Their sinister warning did nothing to discourage her, but on the contrary, their brassy blankness seemed to silently challenge her to go on, and by then she had been frothing for any cheap way of quick payback.

"You were fooled by the promise of the first passing Daedra!"

Eager to prove how easily she could be just as ruthless as him, if she so ever desired.

"You refused to help Hakon and the others!"

Seizing what seemed the only means to erase her blunder and retake her power, all the while crushing once and forever the haughty, odious mask of untouchable indifference he persisted wearing everywhere.

"And it was always you that hid inside some temple like a coward instead of facing Alduin, like you were supposed to do! Because in the end you only are a..!"

"You stupid, vapid girl!" His hand clawed around her arm, bolting swifter than the fangs of a stung viper. "You truly believe to be keen-witted, do you?" he maliciously hissed as he erased the little space between them with a harsh, vice-like pull.

"Smart and sly, while indeed you can discern nothing at all! Everything has to be simplified, spelled out for you," he jeered with pure enmity, the quick drop of his voice a jarring contrast from the abrupt, rough way he tore off his mask. " _Everything_ , or that minute mind of yours would never comprehend the easiest of facts." But a wild edge crackled underneath that seemingly composed growl as he carelessly threw the mask on the floor, releasing with one whipping motion such unexpected, unbridled brutality that she unwittingly jolted back in utter shock.

"How convenient, to have you completely ignorant of the significance of both outcomes," and his tone lowered even further down as he leaned over her, emitting a disturbingly icy murmur. "Or so I surmised at first. I will soon rectify that, though, and spoon-feed you again with a notion so glaring that even a nitwit like you will finally grasp it." And a chill tingled her neck as he slowly pronounced those words, but not from the breath exhaled over her cheek.

"If I were to succeed, now you would simply not be." Blistering ferocity slipped through his gritted teeth, revealing all the ire simmering under his trembling grasp.

"So do not ever vaunt nor compare your deeds to mine, _Dovahkiin_ , as you owe to me more than the blessing that flows in your blood. If I respected the script Fate had prepared for you," he added with a scary snarl, interrupting any foreseen retort, "now you would not be here, yapping that noisy, half-witted mouth of yours about matters you have no inkling about."

"But go on, churlish wench." And black, savage eyes scorched her with no more flickers of self-restraint. "You got what you wanted in the end, did you not?" he roughly taunted, nothing in his low growl left but the ugly sham of condescending calm. "I am listening to you now. So recount to me again how much of a failure I truly am, as I am here in front of you, all ears."

And yet, despite the obvious intent of his jibe, he did not wallow in front of her telling lack of response. On the contrary, when she tugged her arm away in an attempt to step away, the last remains of his haughty composure crumbled with the tatters of his guise.

"NO!" he barked as he roughly flipped her back to him, almost frenzied. "You will not get away from this so easily this time! You will say everything, every little detail! All of what you truly think of me!" he shouted vehemently as he shook her shoulders.

"Say it now, Last Dragonborn! What am I?"

A dragon awakened from his slumber, foaming to sink his maw in her soft neck.

"SAY IT ALL!"

With one potent gust his outburst brought her back to the ground, wiping out all the fog that was poisoning her mind. She gawked at his ugly scowl, the steep slope she was treading abruptly visible for the first time. What was really happening between them?

"You..." Her tongue shriveled, the gorge in front of her dizzying in its deep widening. Nonetheless he'd now made it impossible to retreat back. He was positively fuming and had her cornered, staggering on the edge of the cliff. It was only then, as her fury gradually receded in favour of some lucidity, that the blurry contours of their current situation finally acquired an understandable shape, and her heart abruptly galloped, racing as fast as the dawning comprehension of her ill-thought plan of comeuppance.

"You are mucking it all up…" Only a reticent, wobbly mumble rich with uncertainty came out, but for some mystifying reason it managed to smother all the crackling rage under his sneer, as if he had been unexpectedly doused into a pool of chilling confirmation. And so, despite all of the glaring cracks, his expression schooled back to its previous blank impassivity, and the turbulent flames whirling in his black gaze retreated behind a cape of inscrutable and bottomless void yet again.

"I see," he murmured as his hands at last released her shoulders, falling into that eerily soft yet clipped tone she knew by then to never underestimate. "So you've started to realise. Now that many possibilities have returned to grovel at your feet," he snarled with contempt, his shadow towering over her again, "that grandiose idea of yours is not as appealing as before, is it?" And his pale, pointy cheekbones acquired an odd shade of worrisome red.

"What?" She slowly backed away, a shiver of foreboding coursing through her spine, when a vein in his flushed temple visibly twitched.

"Do not feign innocence with me, woman!" he boomed, his rich voice resounding in the room almost as potently as a Shout. "I perfectly saw what you were doing with those two clueless idiots out there," he then added with strained restraint while he ominously strode, covering the distance of her retreating steps. "Leading them on with precise purpose, in front of my very face, and only to force my hand. Am I right?" And his face acquired an even more worrying shade of purple, as he spat with the same ferocity of a _dovah_ burning some helpless town to a crisp. "To make me jealous like some pubescent, common fool!"

"You... That's not…" she spluttered, unable to counter his charge, "I…" And then she could not help but choke on her own words, as telling shame burned up her face. "I was just…"

"Do not even try to deny it," he grunted breathlessly, regaining some vestige of his imperturbable calm, "because your graceless intention was transparent from the start." But the wild gleam dancing in his narrowed eyes warned her otherwise. "Tell me," he then went on, his raspy low tone a brutal mockery of the suave voice he always employed to woo her, "was the thrill worth it? Do you feel more powerful now? Or perhaps you just wanted to drive me into a fury, and then have the perfect excuse to weasel out. So as to finally know," he ended with pure gratuitous malice, "how it is to lay with other men."

"That..!" She screeched from raw outrage. The shamelessness! The brass! The pure gall he had, to turn the tables on her like that! To insinuate that, and then make it sound like she was the one at fault. Her, and not him!

"You really are a cretin!" she screamed back, shoving his chest with little result. "So after being a complete jerk for the whole day, you now try to accuse me of what, flirting around? Well, how strange that I'm being nice to people that treat me well for a change!"

"What are you insinuating now?" he gritted darkly, but then he gnashed in answer, just as he backed away to intercept with a vicious grip the slap that barely missed his face. "But of course, how could I ever forget? The great Last Dragonborn is always the innocent one - always - the paragon of all virtues! Because it is me and only me, after all, the source of all of her disgraces!"

"Do not dare to play the victim now," she screeched as she wildly tugged at her trapped wrist, "not when you unjustly called me a cheater and treated me like dirt!" And then, to her internal horror, the surge brimming in her moist eyes trickled down a cheek, and soon all the floodgates collapsed like dunked paper in front of him. He truly thought so little of her, just as he had hinted at the Atronach's Stone. So little, in fact, that he could not even see beyond her stupid farce.

"You horrible wretch," she bawled between broken sobs. "You did not even bother to ask me first! You did not even have the decency to give me a proper ring!" And that had been the final proof. She had fantasised so much about how he would finally propose to her, and he had to ruin it all just to make her pay. That was the answer. He was never affected by anything, because he simply did not care. He never replied with anything tender, because he was not as invested as her.

"And why should I?" he countered back, even more upset, mirroring her hollers with his powerful bellow. "Enlighten me! So that you can then get rid of it at the first opportunity, like you did with my amulet?"

And all the blood drained from her face.

"You..! How..!" she spluttered incoherently.

His callowness was not overbearing taunting, then.

"Did you really believe that I would not notice?" And his face contorted into an even uglier shade of anger.

It was far worse.

"Then you truly regard me as the utmost of fools!" he raged at the top of his lungs. "What were you thinking? That you had me so besotted that I would be totally blind? That the senile dullard was completely pliant and under your thumb, like one of your pathetic dragons?"

"It's not like that!" She desperately scrabbled for some way out. "I... I lost it! In the prison! The guards took it away!" But hearing that did not seem to placate him. On the contrary, he turned his back to her to glare at the restless flames of fireplace with gelid fury.

"I waited, you know," he abruptly hissed after an interminable span of unnatural silence. He paced, the disquieting shadows of the fire obscuring the vivid redness still burning in his face from her sight. His posture returned to that unnatural stiffness, though, oozing that same semblance of deceitful calm he had worn for their whole journey. A detached restraint that forebode nothing remotely good.

"I waited to see when you would finally tell me the truth." And her heart skipped a beat.

"But nonetheless you decided to lie to me till the end." Palpable distress still seeped from his duller tone, and a chilling suspicion froze her reeling thoughts.

"You did not lose the amulet," he wearily declared, as he stopped in front of the fire, the agitated lights now illuminating only the outline of his unreadable blank expression.

His brooding, the cutting sarcasm… All those bursts of unexpected anger and moody silences... She had been misunderstanding them all.

He seemed strangely hesitant for a moment, as if almost stricken at the idea, but then his gaze hardened and he continued, slowly pronouncing his next words as if they were an irrevocable sentence. "You sold it, and for a pittance."

Her vision almost blurred from the brutal clarity of his confirmation.

He had known from the very beginning.

He had known and yet he had said nothing.

He had known and yet acted as if he was completely unaware, just to assess her level of honesty.

A disguised test she had failed to pass. And she felt suddenly ill.

How underhanded of him.

And how shortsighted of her for not seeing it coming. She knew by then how distrustful and paranoid he could become when he smelled the slightest hint of suspicion. And yet she had stupidly hoped that the problem would have simply vanished by itself, if she ignored it for long enough.

As if he could ever forget anything.

Such wishful and naive thinking.

And yet she could not feel outraged by his deceitful trick. She had been doing the same to him.

"How do... How did you know?" Her arms slightly trembled when his only answer was another wall of thick silence.

"Have you ever wondered how I knew you were in prison?" he coldly resumed after a while as he intently watched the flames, never turning to look at her.

"So you asked the merchants."

"Your partner in crime," he crisply corrected her. "Even he took pity of your foolishness, or perhaps of my own, after watching me looking for you like a clueless buffoon." She could see it, from the gritted snarl he could not suppress, that the memory alone made his blood boil in renewed rage.

"Miraak, I..."

"Your actions speak for themselves." His interruption cut off her attempt with the same swiftness of the sharpest of blades, ruthlessly lashing any bud of heartfelt apology. The undercurrent meaning was crystal clear: He refused to listen to anything more she could say.

"You preferred to steal."

He was not going to mend the situation as usual.

"To lie."

This time he was not even trying.

"To blindly follow a complete stranger, rather than come to me."

And that... That had never happened before.

There were no more traces of emotion in his levelled voice - not anger, nor displeasure, nothing she could remotely recognise. He just stood there in front of the fireplace, with an unreadable expression and seemingly lost in deep concentration, while his tone continued to sound misleadingly soft, yet unwavering and cold, as if he were voicing a list of harsh facts he had been gathering over time, to illustrate the logic behind a difficult decision. As if he were... And her mind startled at the thought.

As if he were giving up on her.

She would have done that in his stead.

"It's not..." She shook her head in denial. That was not supposed to be happening. "…Not like that!" That was not what she wanted. She would have never imagined their row could degenerate to that. "You don't understand..." Foreboding constricted her throat, but she could not allow her emotions to prevail again. "I could not!"

And yet she could feel the mounting anxiety twisting in her gut and enough desperation to blurt it all. Oh Akatosh, in her blind tantrums she foolishly took things too far.

"Explain." The disdain that sharpened his curtness was disheartening, but she could sense from the way he brusquely shifted his glare to her that she had managed to stall his sentence in some way. She had stammered something right for a change.

"Did you think that I would be unable to exert enough leverage?" he questioned with stoic detachment, his forbidding expression never revealing anything but suspicion. "That I could not solve such a simple issue?" The tension in all of his muscles, though, and the wave of reproachful resentment crippling his even tone, gave away that her blunder injured something far more profound and tender than simple trust.

"It's not that," she muttered, disturbed. He had been masking so well the suppuration of his wound that she had barely perceived the barest tang of rank scent. "It could never be that." And just because all of her attention was too absorbed in quelling her own stupid fears. Those same, old insecurities that continued to resurface despite her best efforts at squashing them over and over. They were the main force that drove her to push his patience every cursed time, and turn every occasion into some murky, undefinable trial he had to pass, as she awaited with anguished anticipation the moment he would finally draw the line and get sick of it all. Of her, just as she feared.

"It is just..." so illogical and perverse. So completely messed up. There was no way that she could ever explain all of that to him and make it a even bit comprehensible - not with the coherent and sensible words he so required.

Her labile determination was thus already wavering, and she would have not even attempted to stitch the damage if not for the mistrust that sparkled in his withdrawn gaze, ruthlessly demanding all the facts.

"I did not want," it was difficult though, "to face the consequences…" A raspy whisper scratched her throat. It was almost inaudible, but under that sepulchral scrutiny it resounded too loud for her frayed nerves. The heaviness of his glare intensified, wordlessly ordering her to go on until its sheer will became unbearable to sustain anymore. Her head tilted down, so that strands of hair could veil her face from his sight.

"I did not want to quarrel again." There was a reason behind her stubborn refusal to tell him the truth. "I did not want to see you angry just hours after we made... Peace." The same reason that instinctively fed all of her confrontational attitudes.

"I was... Worried." The correct term, however, was scared. She was scared to openly acknowledge how dependent on him she had truly become. "I feared that you..." It was completely different in Apocrypha. She could simply blame the circumstances and reassure herself that she only clang to him because there was nobody else around. "…I thought that you would then change your mind." But now... Now that they were in Nirn...

There were no excuses.

"I just could not stand the idea." And he was so smart – too smart. He would immediately deduce the great predicament she was in, and fully understand what she had been trying so hard to conceal from him.

"I could not face the utter disappointment you would have certainly shown." About how great was the amount of sway he had over her.

"There was no way I could justify it." So vast that he would then see through all of her bluffs from then on.

"I could not underplay the shallowness of selling the very first gift you gave me, like some second-hand trinket, all right?" She was not simply accepting him in her life, ready to march away whenever he displeased her, as she insisted on throwing in his face at every opportunity.

"It was in a spur of rage, Miraak!" Nor did she just want him at her side, as she had tactically conceded.

"Because I felt betrayed! I could not bear the sight of it!" Oh, Akatosh. She needed him, and badly, and the moment he realised how much, she would lose all of that little weight she still exerted over him.

She braced herself for the inevitable, but peeked at his pensive scowl nonetheless, baffled when nothing happened. Why wasn't he gloating yet? He should have been radiating the self-satisfied arrogance of someone who had just acquired complete leverage. But instead, to her complete loss, it seemed quite the opposite, judging from the perplexed yet calculating expression that softened his frown. The silence thickened as he just crossed his arms, looking unblinking first at her, and then at the floor, lost in his thoughts, with the same glower of an uninitiated forced to translate some advanced spell tome.

As if her attempt was not working at all.

"I'm just not like you," she fumbled, not even bothering to conceal her exasperation. "I do and say stupid things when I'm hurt all the time! Mistakes that I then end up regretting…" What more could she say to appease him? It was the first time she had ever conceded so much to anyone. She was at her wits' end.

"That..." His slightly parted mouth finally moved, as if her outburst snapped him from a strange sort of trance, but then, to her disappointment, he let out only a faint, absolutely undecipherable low hum, as if he suddenly had second thoughts. It was obvious from his unfocused stare that his mind was still racing in a sea of swirling thoughts, until his brows furrowed and he blinked, staring directly at her.

"That's exactly why you must come to me first," he concluded with unexpected vehemence as he got closer, regaining that familiar self-confident gait. "So that I can stop you from acting on such foolishness."

His tone rang resolute, unexpectedly placid yet strong, and her breath faltered when he leaned forward, just like he did during their silent strolls in Apocrypha, to confide some new conclusion of his. It was usually a reassessment born from sudden insight, a deduction that overturned all the bases of his previous assumptions, and so she raptly listened.

"If you come to me," he added with a deep yet caressing rumble, "I can calm you down." That same one that pleasantly soothed all of her fears when she had felt completely hopeless, dragging her into a deeper attachment. "I can make you rethink the benefits of pursuing such rash actions, don't you see?" A thumb brushed away some locks from her face, and her skin shuddered at that gentle touch. It was so startlingly intimate that her heart fluttered like a weightless butterfly, trembling in nervous trepidation.

"All of this could have been avoided." Her eyes still refused to face his, though, and so he pointedly tilted her chin up. "Everything," he stressed, "if only you relied on me." And a smouldering intensity swirled behind his sombre gaze, speeding the thundering in her ears to a wild race.

"I could have stopped all of this silly dispute from ever unfolding if only I knew," he emphasised again, as if talking this time more to himself than to her, "and solved such a trivial problem from the very beginning, if only…" And a flame of certainty flared up from his intense gaze, melting all the remaining frost that stiffened his visage.

"You senseless girl," he chided, cupping her face, and instant relief coursed through her. Whatever conclusion he had reached, it seemed she had just gotten off scot-free, even after all the nastiness she had purposefully spat at him. "Such reasons are hardly sufficient for rushing away with so little foresight," he commented with a mild frown, making her feel even more guilty. There was a hint of odd delight in his resigned exasperation, though.

"Be sincere, were they really worthy of ending up in a filthy prison," he then insisted, but another pleased tinge emerged from his deep hum, "or to endure all of those beatings?" His lulling cadence drifted to a satisfied and unmistakable purr, softer than the smoothest of velvets, and a tingle of thrill shot down her back, as she closed her eyes in utter chagrin.

He saw through that ruse too.

She fidgeted in embarrassing silence, unable to deny or avoid that self-satisfied yet placid look, with that ruthless, soft fondness unearthing even more of her crippling remorse. And so it was the acute guilt that pushed her forward, that pressed her against him until she embraced without any fuss his unspoken offer of armistice, with arms meekly wrapped around his torso and a scorching face hidden by his merciful robes. His question was painfully rhetoric, the firm caress brushing her mane confirmed that.

"You are just blowing that story out of proportion again..." Her unruly mouth nonetheless had to mumble something in defence, still falling into the ridiculous habit of denying the undeniable.

"Hush," he softly intimated, almost tired as the tip of his chin rested on her head. He now knew better than to give any value to such dismissals. "I truly underestimated how much of a sentimental ninny you could be," he then grumbled with a thick wave of what sounded like sardonic mirth.

"Why do you say that?" Was he mocking her perhaps? "That's absolutely not…" Her eyebrows however did not frown in petulance, but arched in pure surprise, when brusque hands seized her face again and hasty lips crashed on hers, shutting her up for good.

"…True?" she mumbled between gasps, but another vigorous kiss quieted her yet again, forceful but oddly gushing, as if he had finally realised how much easier and ridiculously effective those, rather than the wittiest of comebacks, could silence her into a dazed compliance. A telling rumble soon raised from his chest though, and it was his shaking shoulders, more than the choked snort that snapped her out of it, flustering her with mixed heat.

"Don't laugh, you idiot," she managed to whine through large gulps of air, "it is not funny!" Instead of waning away, though, his smothered chortles turned into a full, rich laugh.

"Oh yes, _lokiin_ , my mistake," he snickered under the rain of his quick, torrid pecks, his eyes now gleaming with mischievous amusement. "You are not prone to rush into lovelorn feats like a hopeless romantic, just to appease your beloved," and her knees swayed from the arrogant self-assurance in his silky murmur, "even less to fret at any of his silly shams of inattention, right?" His arm steadily grabbed her waist, just as his mouth brushed her jaw, scorching and tantalising, until its warm breath lingered over her ear with deliberate intent.

"No, my rugged warrior does not languish for sweet nothings in secluded corners," he teased, and his voice deepened to a syrupy, knowing purr when his hand lifted her own with studied nonchalance. "Nor does she pine for gallant dalliances, like the most endearing of maidens." His eyes then locked with hers, never leaving her widened ones as his lips grazed the back of her hand, searing her skin with poignant purpose. And she would have blushed in utter dismay, if her face wasn't already burning with the most feverish shade of tomato-red. He even had the audacity to openly grin at her. Grin!

"You really have to rub it in, don't you?" Oh Akatosh, he was getting a kick out of all of this too - at making her so flustered with so little effort. "So that's why you were so grumpy all day," she quickly veered from the topic, fretting with what was such a blatant forgery of pique that the scoundrel did not even address it and merely brushed it off, resuming with his… His newest ploy. And yet she persisted. It was ten times better to divert his attention to his own questionable behaviour, than to sink further in the morass that was her embarrassingly lost case.

"Well?" She could feel it from the hunger in his lips that he planned to bring up her 'sappy decision-making' - as he had playfully labelled it afterwards - at every chance he got, and for a very long time. Pity though that he did not fall for it, but just nodded as he traced her jaw.

"That and more." His tone had reacquired its darker, meaningful edge, and her mind, despite his distracting mouth nibbling her neck, perked up in paranoid agitation until she finally caught up.

"Do you mean the bandits?" And her burst of girlish giggles gained a mild, unamused frown. "Oh, yes, they really did not help," she continued, unabashed, and a small mischievous hand traveled down his torso, just to fiddle with the clasp of his belt. And that was a huge understatement.

"I see now. So it is acceptable only when you can rub it in," he whispered next to her ear, his voice coated with an alluring undertone of undefinable indecency. "No, cheeky minx," and another shudder tingled her neck when his lips seared against its sensitive skin, "they absolutely did not. And the time has come," he stated unquestionably, as he pushed her hips over a dresser, "to rectify what was left impending."

And some crockery fell. Some clanged and some broke. Others continued to roll loudly on the floor, but she heard nothing, not a single sound, because Miraak was finally all over her again. His body pinned hers, his mouth plundered hers, and his hands roamed everywhere: bold, rushing, unstoppable; on her thighs, on her clasps, on her exposed chest; but it was the unavoidable noise that followed, the clangorous racket of heavy armour unceremoniously joining all of the scattered pottery, that shattered her feverish stupor.

"No!" she vehemently exclaimed, her push so abrupt that he almost stumbled backwards.

"What in Oblivion!" he spluttered, disconcerted, but she just continued unabashed, completely ignoring his mounting outrage.

"Absolutely not, no sex!" From his spurned scowl, one would think that she had just threatened to throw him out of the hut. "We can't!" If she caved in, then he would dismiss the matter as irrelevant when it was not. "We are not done just yet. There is the other..." And she stammered with incongruous shyness, as she defensively folded her arms around her bare breasts. "The other issue," she stressed with a nervous yet very telling dour frown.

Or so she thought, because his vexed glare just returned her inquiring one with a heavy dose of unconcealed bafflement.

"Issue?" he repeated warily, as if she were just raving unintelligible gibberish at him.

"Yes," and she tilted up her chin to get her point across. "Issue!"

"Oh Auri' El," he burst out, but then he must have caught up, because he stroked his forehead in a gesture that clearly denoted weary forbearance as he pondered again in deep concentration, until he sighed.

"Of course, the 'issue'," he grumbled begrudgingly, but from that subtle sarcastic edge she knew that he was still not taking the matter as seriously as he should. "Very well," he went on, patronising, as if he were doing some great act of goodwill. "I will concede that my announcement was a rash decision."

"Concede?" she almost screeched back. The infinite shamelessness of that man!

"Well," he spat exasperated, "is that not what you want to hear?"

"It is not about what I want to hear, you idiot!"

"For Lorkhan's sake! Why are you dissatisfied now?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

And he dared to groan again.

"Was that not what you wanted in the end from me?" he replied as he paced restlessly in front of her, his voice now a soft, tired murmur, even though a deep, arrogant frown tarnished it. "I simply spared myself further annoyances."

"Annoyances," she repeated as if it were the vilest of words. "So that's what I am to you now!"

"Do not twist my words, woman," he hissed, frustrated, turning to snarl at her. "That is not what I meant and you know that very well!"

"Then don't 'woman' me! You really don't get it, do you? You can't go around saying that we are... That we are…" And she blushed for the umpteenth time, feeling like an utter fool. "...Married!"

"Really," he questioned sceptically, by no means perturbed in the slightest. How unsurprising of him. "And why not, if I may ask?"

"B-Because!" she sputtered, getting even more ruffled. "It requires an exchange of vows! It is a blessing of Mara!" How could he be so frustratingly obtuse, wasn't that incredibly obvious?

"Mm. And your point? In my time, it required a tribute to the dragons and the grace of Kyne."

"What? Seriously?" Well, that certainly explained a lot. He had grown up with different traditions, after all. Perhaps in his time pulling similar stunts was normal and... Oh Dibella, perhaps even expected. And she had never once contemplated the possibility that he would simply follow his own weird, ancestral customs. Then getting Kynareth's favour was essential... Well, that would be easy-peasy, but what about the tribute to the dragons? Odahviing, absolutely not, it would go to his head. Pity that Paarthurnax was out of question, though. She adored him, but Miraak... He just hated his guts. But now that she pondered about it, Miraak hated everything even remotely giant, scaled and with a pair of wings. How the hell were they supposed to get married his way then? His request made absolutely no sense!

Her face must have been expressive enough, because from the way he shook his head he seemed to have guessed her thoughts.

"Don't you see yet?" He snorted in amused exasperation, and then grabbed back her attention, gently unfolding her arms. "We do not need Mara's blessing," he murmured softly, holding her hands together, as if he were disclosing an evident truth, "nor anyone's particular deity. The force of her bond pales in comparison to the red thread of Akatosh's blood." And she could do nothing but stare back at him with widened eyes, as the true meaning of his carefully woven words slowly sank in, inflaming her racing heart.

How he could dish to her such sentimentality with such nonchalance was truly beyond her. And so she replied in the only way such sensible assertion truly deserved: she tugged at his collar and seared that artful tongue with the most impassioned and steamiest of kisses.

"Do not forget that we are not mere mortals, _wuldi…_ " he managed to stammer, baffled by the fierceness of her hug. And yet a strange thrill bubbled behind his comment, a new undercurrent she would have mistaken for arrogant triumph if not for the bewildered expression that he forgot to wipe away.

But his poor attempts at warning her – if she could ever call his endearing stuttering that – had been a lost battle anyway. She would have never given him a chance to talk then, even less when he had finally given up, sinking like some wreckage under the waves of her consuming kisses. She could never contain herself, not when it roamed free like that. But then, it was all his fault anyway, if not because of his sleek wooing, then for his honeyed ways with words. Or so she had thought for a long while.

He should have known better.

He should have told her!

And yet... If she were honest... _Really_ honest...

...She loved it all, didn't she? How his tongue thoroughly invaded her mouth, cutting those few restraints that she barely retained, until no hook of decency remained as anchor.

So in the end it did not matter. They would have clung onto each other the same way and her urge would have roared undeniable, foaming rabidly, like a beast trapped in a barren pit that hungered for its prey. Her lips would have thus took a will of their own. They would have dared to swoop further down. They would have hovered over that sensitive spot beneath his ear over and over.

Nothing would have changed. Not then, not ever.

" _Geh…"_ he hissed out when her bite sank. " _Daar los vir nii los drehlaan..."_

His stoic stiffness struggled against the heat that suffused in his paling face, even after his addled frown ended up betraying him, and his impenetrable pitch-dark gaze shut with ill-concealed relish. Such sudden passivity from him was rather uncharacteristic, however. All of her bells should have rang in a noisy symphony of paranoid suspicion then.

And in fact, 'something had just changed' was what the small, far away voice had chirped at her once – a feeble note from her intuition that sadly her fever squashed every time, without any regard. In retrospect such generous condescension should have really tipped her off, especially when at first it had turned into an incomprehensible growl, and after, into a soothing murmur as soon as she unbuckled his belt and her hands slipped under his shirt.

" _Ah… Ahrk hes horvut do dez..."_ His husky voice flowed over her like a scalding stream and she quivered, pampering his neck with even more steamy kisses, but his maddening countenance continued to withstand proudly despite his quicker breathing, his obstinacy to withhold the inevitable storm only stirring her onslaught. Her puffy mouth thus stopped nibbling his earlobe and returned to suck the reddened marks she had made with renewed zeal, finally bringing forth that choked, guttural moan that foreshadowed his unavoidable crack – a small morsel of delectable yielding that spurred her further on, raising goosebumps all over her nape until they traveled down and sizzled in her core.

She writhed, her body burning with pure need.

Never had she felt this _alive_ before.

"I need you." Her whisper scalded his ear, but he only shuddered and stiffened more, his hands just tightening like vices around her hips.

Why, she wondered in frustration.

Why couldn't he let it loose?

Like last night.

And the memory fueled her craze.

Tiny palms roamed over his torso in a frenzy, their lips locked as they stumbled together on the floor, but only when her nails scratched the tensed muscles of his back did she understand what it was that she really craved.

She wanted him like last night.

All-consuming. Overwhelming. Free.

And she did not know how, but she could sense it bubbling up underneath his bare skin, bottled up, from every touch and caress and searing kiss. How quickly his pulse throbbed against the soft grazing of her teeth, and how his blood raced beneath her hands, every part of him hardening whenever her lips locked with his…

But it was not enough. It was exhilarating, but she hungered for _more_ — she had tasted so much more _…_

And she wanted it whole.

" _Daar volg tolaan ahrk baakritnu tarvok…"_ He rasped as she kissed his Adam's apple _,_ and while his hands cupped her rear with unmistakable desire, it was the curbed voracity she could inhale from his gasps that intoxicated her even more. How it rumbled and howled as it climbed upwards, its palpable heat upsurging richer and thicker, stronger the more she beckoned him, and sucked and kissed and bit…

His coat fell aside and he swallowed hard.

" _Vir vust Zu'u alun qahnaar daar?"_ An odd mix of raw need and helpless distress cracked his voice. " _Qahnaar hi?"_ But she did not hesitate and pushed him down, straddling him before he could come to his senses and turn the situation around.

So she did not waste her time and unfastened the first clasp of his trousers, her palm outlining his hardened bulge as his hawk-like stare intently followed all of her movements. She licked her lips and his gaze glazed over, his schooled expression cracking with ill-concealed yearning when her fingertips traced the thick swelling of his exposed base, taunting to free his awaiting cock from its stifling confinement. But she deliberately unlatched only the second clasp, coaxing that exasperated grunt she so thirsted to hear. And so she grinned deviously in front of her small accomplishment, tracing the tip still trapped under his clothes before abruptly wrapping her hand around his length, very pleased at the hiss he let escape when she finally pulled it out.

It was time to swallow him whole.

To ride him beyond the verge.

To squeeze every inch of his control, spurt by spurt, until he erupted into a gush of uninhibited mess.

But he must have caught her intention somehow, perhaps from the savage glint in her narrowed pupils, because he broke from his stupor and quickly unhorsed her with a light shove. They rolled on the floor until he managed to keep her pressed under him, unable to overturn their entwined stance, but one of her hands artfully eluded his grasp and stroked him again. He tensed up and groaned at her languid touch, his shoulders shaking while he struggled to keep her still.

" _Ganog!"_

He snatched her wrist away and she bristled, ready to respond, the strange heat still ruling uncontested in her blood, but his face just buried in her mane and he merely inhaled her scent, muttering something unintelligible in _Dovahzul_ , until a cold, foreign touch slithered around her shoulder.

And she blinked.

Her sight unfocused for a moment, the wild fever thinning out and leaving behind only a void of padded estrangement. She looked back at Miraak's clouded expression, and at the large hands that sank in her hair and struggled to clasp something tiny that scratched her nape. And that's when she truly noticed it: how his breathing was unnaturally shallow and irregular, and how his black eyes were half-lidded and dazed, looking almost transfixed at her heaving chest, at the chilly weight that now rested over its soft curves.

"You bought it back!" she exclaimed, overjoyed, admiring the faint shimmer of a familiar jewel she never expected to see again, much less wear so soon.

"Keep in mind that I won't retrieve it again," he murmured thickly, brushing a lock of her hair aside nervously and shifting his gaze away, as if her beaming smile could have made him uneasy. But then he sobered up and became pensive, tracing the golden chain until his touch lingered between her breasts, just where his amulet laid.

His eyes clouded again.

"Give me your _Rot, dovahi_." She shivered at the sheer intensity his gaze withheld. "Promise that you will never take it off, no matter what will happen."

"I will," she nodded earnestly, "I will do that and more! Anything…" But she lost her nerve and stammered, an incongruously coy blush blazing in her cheeks.

"Do you?" And his gaze darkened even more.

"But your _Ov_ ," he then questioned with a suaver edge, a lulling huskiness that could not hide the thrill tainting his calculating glance.

"Tell me," he pressed, and this time his fingers moved upwards, to caress the contour of her soft breast, "is it mine too?"

Her heart jolted.

" _Pah dii_ like this beating _hil_?" he purred with a knowing gleam.

"Yes..." It came out tremulously, however, a breathy whisper, because even if her gaze was locked with his, she could still feel the rough texture of his palm firmly cupping her breast. His heat seeped sweetly, a delicious tingle throughout her skin, and her body shuddered, compliant, basking in its soothing warmth.

"Are you sure?" he prompted then gently — too gently — as his thumb brushed her nipple, and she squirmed, a burst of heat spreading from her soaked slit when his mouth rested just inches away, his warm breath tickling its hardened nub.

"Despite everything?" But then a bizarre glee seeped from his languorous kisses, and his fondling turned from tender and teasing to fierce and possessive, each peck and lick scalding her body like coals, with an intoxicating heat she had never experienced before.

"Yes, Miraak! Yes!" she whimpered when he avidly sucked her breast, ecstatic by the rush of new warmth that he was pouring into her. "Akatosh is my witness," and so she cried unrestrained, embracing him tightly, "I would do anything!" Anything for him to _be_ and _feel_ like this all the way, every moment... Every night!

"Then my _Rot_ is this, _Silnakiin_ ," he growled, feral, abruptly halting his kisses and disentangling himself from her arms.

Taking that strange, addicting heat with him.

"You will never come to regret it," he stated ferociously, and with a flick of his hand he conjured his staff. "Not now that I can finally claim it all," he then added as an afterthought, blatant self-satisfaction rolling in waves from what she could only identify as proud exultation.

She frowned, befuddled, also because his promise was obscure if not vague, and a flurry of different questions danced over the tip of her tongue, ready to dart one after another. And yet none took flight, her voice freezing as fast as every passing thought when he pointed the glowing weapon straight at her chest.

"What are you doing?" The point of his staff flickered with Daedric magic and started charging.

No, she shook her head. He would not. He could not!

" _Piraantaas fos los dii,"_ he simply replied with a haughty smirk, and then he fired, his pitch-dark eyes blazing with twisted mirth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon language:
> 
> Morwuld = cyclone
> 
> Neliik = faster
> 
> Miil = woman
> 
> Hi los lok, dii brii = you are my sky, my beauty
> 
> Wuldi = my whirlwind
> 
> lokiin = fledgeling / chick
> 
> Geh… Daar los vir nii los drehlaan = Yes... This is how it is done
> 
> Ah… ahrk hes horvut do dez… = Huntress... and sweet trap of fate...
> 
> Daar volg tolaan arhrk baakritnu tarvok... = This wild desire and bottomless greed...
> 
> Vir vust Zu'u alun qahnaar daar? = How could I ever vanquish this?
> 
> Qahnaar hi? = Vanquish you?
> 
> Ganog! = Enough!
> 
> Dovahi = my dragon
> 
> Ov = trust
> 
> Pah dii = all mine
> 
> Hil = heart
> 
> Rot = Word
> 
> Silnakiin = Soul-eater
> 
> Piraantas fos los dii = Claiming what is mine

**Author's Note:**

> Dragon language:
> 
> Kruziikrel, ziil los dii du = Kruziikrel,your soul is mine to devour
> 
> Geh, undaargaar = Yes, finally


End file.
